


And We'll All Go Mad

by MsAnalytica



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Angst, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsAnalytica/pseuds/MsAnalytica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The specter of Moriarty has returned, and Molly is convinced he's back. Is he truly back, or is she imagining things? Eventual Sherlolly with a Mollcroft detour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 

“Did you  miss me? Did you miss me?”

 

The disembodied head taunted Molly from every screen in the lab. Shock slammed her, followed quickly by ice cold, seeping numbness into her every limb. She stumbled back, heading for the office. The only thought in her mind was to grab her things from the locker room and hightail it home to the illusioned safety of her flat, and soak in the tub with a bottle of rosé. Looking up, she froze at the door, her mouth dropping open. Her computer monitor was turned around, facing the outside, replaying the same message. What had brought her very heartbeat to a halt, however, was the dead man sitting at her desk, grinning at her.

 

Supposed dead man, then.

 

Not actually dead.

 

All of the sudden. Molly’s heart picked up again, pounding so fiercely that all she could hear was the thunderous roar of blood through her ears. She swayed and had to throw a hand into the door frame to keep herself upright. She opened her mouth before shutting it again, feeling lightheaded.

 

Moriarty broke his silence. “Oh no, no, no. Can’t have you going and fainting on me. Not yet, at least. Got something special saved up for you.”

 

At this, Molly lost it. She turned and fled to a trashcan a few feet away, almost reaching it before he spoke again.

 

“Aw come on now, Molls. Don’t be like that. We have sooo much to discuss!”

 

She missed the can. She fell to her knees as she finished vomiting, partly hitting the can, and partly splattering the floor. She stared at it, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. They began to spill over when she felt one of his hands wind around the base of her ponytail and begin to drag her toward the exit. The new rush of fear coursing through her caused her to flail, attempting to free herself.

 

No good. Another hand came down like a vice on her throat and she felt the press of a body on her chest. She looked into his face, seeing the maniacal grin on his face.

 

“Oh Molls, we’re going to have sooo much fun. Just you wait.”

 

The last thought she had before she slipped out of consciousness was if her cat would miss her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly awoke slowly, her eyes heavy and bleary. Slowly, she squinted them open, only to be greeted by the soft, fuzzy outline of Toby nuzzling her. Well, I guess that answers my question, she thought to herself.

 

Her eyes flew open as she remembered the circumstances surrounding that question. She sat up quickly and wildly looked around, attempting to piece together how she came to be back in her flat, or how she was even still alive. The effort caused her head to spin, and she flopped back onto her bed, watching the ceiling spin.

 

She shut her eyes, feeling as though the world were turning round and round.

 

Drugs. It’s got to be drugs, that’s why I feel as though I’ve been on a bender. But why?

 

Moreover, if it’s drugs, why do I feel as if I’m in the midst of an awful-

 

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, rolling off the bed and running for the toilet. She made it just in time to empty the contents of her stomach into it. She heaved breaths in and out, attempting to regroup. Her head felt ready to explode, and she wished for painkillers. Getting them would require movement, however, which she was afraid to attempt, given the state of her stomach. She collapsed against the tub, resting her cheek on the cool porcelain, trying to recall the chain of events that brought her here. All of the evidence suggested a massive bender resulting in an enormous hangover, but the fear and shock of seeing Moriarty materialize in her office would not be written off as a drunken hallucination. She knew what she saw.

 

She knew what his hands felt like wrapped in her hair.

 

Wrapped around her neck.

 

One of her hands snaked up to touch her throat tenderly. The soreness could be dehydration, she knew. She pulled herself up to the sink and took a look at her reflection. Red, puffy eyes and a bleak complexion greeted her. She leaned in closer, examining her throat, and noting the slight markings lining over her slender neck.

 

Not just a hangover then.

 

The brevity of the situation hit her again, and she placed her hands on the sink. They began to shake as she stared at herself, cataloging her body and the aches and pains.

 

_What happened after I lost consciousness?_

  
All she knew was that, for some reason, Moriarty had delivered her home, seemingly drunk. For what purpose, she knew not. It was glaringly obvious that she needed to pay a certain consulting detective a visit.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly exited the cab, still feeling a little woozy. She gingerly picked her way along the sidewalk until she reached the door to 221 Baker Street. She took a breath and rang the bell, steeling herself for the onslaught of questions she expected from Sherlock.

 

Silence.

 

She rocked on her feet, waging a war with herself before shaking her head and pushing open the  door with resolve. She began to climb the stairs when she met John on his way down.

 

“Oh, hello Molly. I’m sure you’ve seen...well...anyway, it’ll be alright, we’ll get it sorted. No way it can actually be Moriarty anyways, hm?”

 

With that John nodded goodbye and headed out. Molly continued up the stairs to the door and gingerly pushed it open. Violin music flooded her ears and she took in the imposing form of Sherlock at the window. Feeling something catch in her throat, she looked away, unable to deal with the sudden mixture of emotions she was hit with.

 

Sherlock turned, and, seeing her, ceased playing. He turned away again before he began to speak, firing out his thoughts in rapid succession.

 

“Ah, Molly. Come to inquire about the Moriarty business, I presume. No need to worry too much, likely just a copy cat. That being said, Mycroft will surely want to up your security, over abundance of caution and all, plus he does love a flair of drama. Only reason is the involvement you had in my ‘death’, however, it’s all rather unnecessary, I watched Jim Moriarty die myself, following which I pulled apart his spiderweb piece by piece until there was nothing left, so, you see,” he paused, glancing at her once more, “nothing to worry about.”

 

With that he turned around and continued to play. Molly said nothing, simply staring at him, wondering how such a brilliant man could be so thick. Surely he knew? Surely he couldn’t think Moriarty to be dead, and surely he knew that she would be number one on the kill list if he sought vengeance. Molly gathered her wits, praying she wouldn’t stutter as she was so prone to doing in his presence.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

He gave no indication of hearing her, so she slowly crossed the room, and carefully stretched her arm out until her fingers rested lightly on the tip of his violin.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

He froze, turning to stare at her, his eyes cataloging her, before an odd look crossed his face.

 

“Molly, you didn’t need to panic so. Overreacting.”

 

She stared, dumbfounded. “Pardon?” she asked.

 

“There are clear signs of overindulging on you, hangover, written everywhere. Your eyes, red, puffy, your clothes, same ones you wore yesterday, your hair is unwashed as is your face, you’re walking as though your equilibrium is off, add that to the fact the the very air around you reeks of a stale pub and I’d say it’s pretty clear what you got up to after yesterday’s...excitement. What's not clear-” he continued, fixing her with a piercing stare, “is why you’re here.”

 

Molly stepped back, shocked. All of his deductions, usually so concrete, and he thought drinking as well? She stared at him, feeling a flush crawl up her neck, licking the faint lines that she could still feel there.

 

“No, it...I didn’t...He’s...not dead.” She finished lamely.

 

“Not dead? Well of course he’s dead, I saw him, he shot himself, he’s dead.”

 

“People saw you jump off a building,” she threw back heatedly, “and we all know that wasn’t exactly real.”

 

“Yes, but-”

 

“He was there,” she cut him off and he fell silent, “last night, he was...he showed up in my office. He...attacked me, drugged me, brought me home.”

 

Sherlock was quiet before looking at her from the corner of his eye.

 

“Molly, that makes no sense. If Moriarty were alive, then had you run into him, you most certainly would not be. Perhaps the drinks gave you a bit more in the way of colorful dreams that you bargained for.”

 

Anger and humiliation hit her in waves.

 

“He choked me. I have marks on my throat.”

 

“Also easily explained as you were drunk and clumsy.”

 

She was breathing heavily at this point, attempting to stave off the tears that were currently trying to escape. Her throat burned with the effort of containing them. She stared at the ground, wishing it would swallow her up.

 

He took the slightest bit of pity on her as his voice softened by a fraction, and he continued “Molly, we are investigating, and you will be watched, but there’s nothing to get to worked up over just yet.”

 

Molly mutely nodded and turned to leave.

 

“I’ll just...head back to my flat.”

 

There was no response. Molly walked out without another glance, not noticing the queer look Sherlock followed her out with.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly reached her flat, and trudged up the floor. Unlocking her door, she flung her coat carelessly onto the floor and she marched toward her bathroom. She turned the taps on in the tub, filling it with water that was nearly scalding and adding salts to it. Standing, she stripped off the wrinkled mess of clothing she had been donning for over a day and dropped them on the floor.

 

She sat on the edge of the tub naked, watching the opaque water level rise, filling it nearly to the top before shutting the taps off and stepping into the steamy warmth. As she sank into it, the water sloshed over the edge, saturating the floor. She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to begin to fall, streaming down her cheeks and mixing with the bathwater.

 

She loved Sherlock, it was clear to everyone that she always had and apparently always would, but she was also furious with him. With how quickly he dismissed her.

 

With how it always came back to him, every trouble.

 

She remembered the shame she felt when Jim was revealed to be gay. The humiliation and fear when Jim was revealed to be Moriarty. Years in the past, and it still made her feel ill to think of it. Sherlock had never given it much thought, she knew, but the memory of his hands on her would always drag chilling goosebumps down her arms and cause the hair on the back of her neck to prickle.

 

A knock at the door startled her out of the morose thoughts. Toweling off, she headed to see who it was, stopping by her room to grab her dressing gown. She threw it on and rushed out of the room, leaving the door open. She opened the door of her flat to find Mary looking concerned.

 

“Mary? What are you doing here?” Molly questioned her.

 

“Just checking in. I heard you had a bit of a fright, wanted to make sure you were alright.”

 

Molly realized that Mary, who, as it turned out, was more than a little badass, was to be part of her security detail, and saw through her words immediately. “Meaning Sherlock sent you to make sure I wasn’t out of my mind?” she asked bitingly.

 

Mary had the decency to look sheepish and Molly softened slightly. “You may as well come in for a cuppa, Mary. No sense in stalking my door.” Molly said, gesturing inside her flat.

 

Mary nodded and smiled, following her in. “Now then, what’s this Sherlock’s been telling us of you going batty?” she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.

 

Molly could tell she was trying to stay light hearted, but the undercurrent of concern that ran through her friends eyes was hard to miss. “Mary, I know Sherlock thinks I’m imagining things, but I swear, Jim Moriarty is alive. I’ve seen him. I wasn’t drinking last night.”

 

Mary regarded her for a moment before replying. “Molly...I want to believe you, I really do. But the facts remain. We’ve spoken with Mycroft, he swears that Moriarty's body was recovered. And I’ve spoken to some of your friends, they said you were meeting up with them for drinks, but by the time the arrived...you were pissed. Loaded you into a cab and sent you home.”

 

Molly’s mind was reeling. Sherlock, the Mary, and now this? Was she truly so insane?

 

Somehow, she doubted it.

 

“Look, I’ll be around, we all will. Just...try to get some rest, yeah?” Mary offered with a wane smile, before checking her watch and announcing “I’ve got to be off, John’s expecting me.”

 

Molly walked her out, shutting the door and bolting it. She slowly wandered back to the kitchen with the dishes, before grabbing a bottle of wine. “Sod it,” she snorted, “may as well be the drunk they think I am.” She quickly drank a glass before pouring a hearty second. There was scarcely a glass left in the bottle.

 

She walked back to her bedroom door, pausing. _Could have sworn I left that open…_

Pushing open the door, she looked across the room to her vanity, dropping her wine glass.

 

On the mirror, the message taunted her: **_Have a fun one last night?_**

****

Molly promptly fainted.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Molly came to with a start, the taunting message left for her in the forefront of her mind. _I’ve got to call Sherlock_ , she began to think, before pausing. She was still layed out on the ground where she had fallen, the wine having soaked into the carpet and her dressing gown. She looked up at the mirror, staring.

 

The message was gone.

 

Numbly, she looked down at herself again, putting together the evidence. Spilled wine, a largely empty wine bottle, it being daylight still, not having eaten any food...all less than a day after her apparent bender.

 

Not looking good, then.

 

Molly swore to herself, realizing that Sherlock would never believe her. She would instead be well and truly known as a drunk. She knew she wasn’t though, as she had only gotten down a single glass. No, she knew what she saw, and she knew she wasn’t crazy, even if her friends were of the opposite opinion.

 

Stoic silence, then. With a side of supreme paranoia. That’s all she supposed she could do. She may know the truth, but she’d have to suffer along in Jim’s game until he felt like revealing his hand. She was a pawn, powerless to stop it.

 

With this grim knowledge, Molly stood up, heading for her second bath of the day. There was no luxuriating in it this time, just mechanistically washing herself before climbing into bed and wishing night would hurry its advance. She remained there until she fell into a fitful sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly awoke the next morning and rushed through her morning ritual, fleeing her flat as quickly as she could. She arrived at Bart’s early, hoping the presence of other people might quell her nerves. When she arrived, however, the morgue was silent.

 

“Right, then,” she muttered to herself, “I’ll just get to work I suppose.”

 

She worked the morning in silence, becoming fully absorbed in her work. Looking up from her last postmortem, she noticed the clock had flown past one and was edging up on two. A sudden pang in her stomach reminded her that, in all the excitement, it had been well over a day since she had eaten. She hastily put away the body she had been working on and washed up, intent on getting to the cafeteria.

 

Molly was at the door to the morgue when it flew open and Sherlock strode in, followed closely by John.

 

“Ah, Molly, feeling a little better are we?” He inquired. Molly opened her mouth to speak when he continued. “I need access to a body for some experiments; do you think you could oblige?”

 

“Sherlock, I was just about to head to lunch, do you think it could wait?” she pleaded.

 

He stared at her, confused that she hadn’t given in immediately. “But, Molly-”

 

“Oh, sod off!” she exclaimed, surprising herself. “Find someone else to be your lab monkey for once!”

 

With that, she began to storm off, pausing at the door to combat the lightheadedness her outburst and quick movements had caused. Regrouping, she charged on, not stopping until she reached  the cafeteria.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A week passed with no more incidents, and the whole of London began to quiet in its chatter about Moriarty. Sherlock and John, while far from off the case, had shifted their focus toward active cases, rather than the seemingly stagnant and boring case of a computer hacker, which they had decided was behind it.

 

Molly thought no such thing, becoming more resigned each day. No new threats appeared, however, and by the end of the week, she had more or less returned to her normal routine. Another week went by, and she had almost decided the whole thing had been her imagination.

 

She came home after work and set about her evening, ordering takeaway and watching some crap telly. She crawled into bed and thought about the events that, at this point, she was no longer confident had occurred.

 

“Mad Molly,” she murmured, “Ah, well, at least it has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it, Toby?” She scratched him behind the ears as he purred his assent. She drifted off into her first semi-peaceful night since the incidents.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


The next morning, Molly was on her way to work on the tube, sitting and staring absentmindedly at the wall. She watched the walls of the underground whizz by her, taking in very little. Her eyes snapped into focus when the carriage flew past a bank of posters, the words whipping by so fast she barely had time to make them out.

 

**_I. O. U._ **

****

An alarm bell went off in her head, though she couldn’t immediately place why.

 

_“What did you mean, ‘I owe you’?”_

_“You said, ‘I owe you.’ You were muttering it while you were working.”_

 

The memory pierced through her and she shot to her feet. She looked around nervously, though nobody seemed to notice her or her distress. At her stop, she fled, quickly navigating the station until she emerged onto the street, hightailing it to Bart’s.

 

Molly was rushing up the steps when a sleek, black car pulled behind her. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and slowed her frantic movements. She came completely to a halt when the door opened and an umbrella planted itself on the ground.

 

“Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft stated, “I wonder if I may have a moment.”

 

Molly could recognize a thinly veiled order when issued one. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut, but turned and nodded with a tight smile, walking towards the car. Opening the far side, she dropped in unceremoniously next to Mycroft. She stared out the window, refusing to make eye contact.

 

“Now then,” began Mycroft, “Sherlock was not mincing his words when he told you we would be watching out for your security. Rest assured, Doctor Hooper, that we have been very thorough with your safety.” Mycroft paused, examining her.

 

“That being said, I understand you haven’t seen much of us, or of Sherlock, and you must believe yourself to be under very little observation. However, I must inform you that this is not the case. So,” he continued, “exactly what is it that has you acting so spooked? Clearly you think something is amiss.”

 

Molly could have taken the out. Perhaps he would have believed her. But at this point, all she had was mistrust and fear, and she opted for what, in her mind, was the safest option.

 

To not count. If she bowed out, ceased contact with the Holmes boys, perhaps whomever was tormenting her would decide she wasn’t the answer. It was a naive hope, she knew, but her mind was set. And so, she squared her shoulders and turned to Mycroft.

 

“Nothing. There’s nothing, I’m...fine. It was a shock to me, to all of us, but...it's fine.”

 

Mycroft said nothing, electing to stare at her. His mouth twisted into a slight scowl of displeasure, and Molly was sure he didn’t completely believe her. A moment passed in silence before he broke it. “Very well, Doctor Hooper, if you are certain. There’s just one other thing; since nothing has come of this whole Moriarty business, there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.”

 

“Sorry, prevent what?”

 

“Sherlock. He’s being sent back on an assignment, going undercover again. Eastern Europe.”

 

Molly froze, realizing the implication that Sherlock was going to vanish again on another lengthy and dangerous mission, just as he had years prior. “I understand,” she replied, thinking to herself, _at least I don’t have to cover it up this time. At least John will know._

 

She got out of the car and walked into Bart’s without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft stared after Molly, watching her make a beeline for the hospital. Something was...off, and he couldn’t put a finger on it. Most unusual, that. _Well now, Doctor Hooper, we’ll just have to keep a closer watch on you, I suppose._

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

"I'm leaving."

 

Molly jumped at the sudden break in the silence, whirling around to face Sherlock. She opened her mouth and looked down before giving a small nod and replying, "I know."

 

Sherlock looked visibly confused. "How-"

 

"Mycroft told me."

 

He seemed to consider this information, muttering "Big brother always did like to meddle. Though I suppose your help regarding my original disappearance has earned you a more favorable position in his eyes."

 

"Um, thanks, I think."

 

"One does have to wonder at his angle, though. I imagine he'll be in touch more once I leave. Be careful of that, Molly. My brother can be a wolf in sheep's clothing when he chooses."

 

With that he turned away. "Molly, I'm...unsure of when I'll be back. Do take care of yourself, and...thank you."

 

She was about to ask him if he was alright when he swept from the room. Her heart broke a little as she watched his signature coat whip out of sight, not knowing when she might see him again. She drew in a shaky breath, resolving herself to it. After all, she figured, she had wanted distance. And distance is what she got.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What do you want with Molly Hooper?"

 

"Good heavens, Sherlock, must you always be so dramatic?" Mycroft looked up from the papers lining his desk. "I simply thought I should reacquaint myself with one of your goldfish before you went off to your death. You are so protective of them." he added disdainfully.

 

Sherlock wasn't amused with the air of nonchalance that Mycroft was putting off. "Mycroft, you are never so transparent. You have no reason for anything more than watching her from afar, and yet you insist on face to face interaction with her. Why?"

 

Mycroft sighed, pushing back from his desk and standing. "Something is bothering her."

 

"Certainly; she was forced to interact with the likes of you."

 

"Sherlock, you know what I mean."

 

"Molly is fine, aside from the fright she went through and her disappointingly normal reaction to it."

 

Mycroft considered him a moment. "Very well, Sherlock. I shall keep my distance."

 

"No you won't; I can see it now. Just know that Molly Hooper is a good friend, Mycroft. She counts. As a last request, brother dear, I ask that you try not to traumatize her."

 

"Oh Sherlock, do calm down. There are other things for you to be concerned about."

 

Sherlock stopped, thinking about his likely death. It sobered him, thinking about leaving his friends for good. He hadn't realized how lonely he had been all his life before them. "Yes, brother mine, perhaps you're correct."

 

“It is time to go then, brother mine.”

 

A bitter taste formed at the back of his throat as he looked about the room. He gave a sharp nod. “Blood.” he threw back as he walked out of the room towards the waiting helicopter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was gone. Molly felt his absence in every nook and cranny of Bart’s. John stopped by twice a week, to ensure that she was getting on alright, though his general zest for the cases that brought him there was noticeably dampened. Mary elected to stand in for Sherlock for the first week or so, though neither of them could match the inscrutable wit of him. Molly had to admit that their presence was very much a welcome addition, serving to distract her when they showed.

 

All in all, though, the hospital was...quiet. The morgue was almost supernaturally quiet. One would almost expect the dead to make more noise than they did, though, she supposed, she never had worked in a quiet morgue before. Perhaps this was just other people’s normal. This pattern continued for three weeks before it was broken.

 

Molly was due to meet Meena at the pub after work, and she was running a few minutes late. She finished closing the body she was working on, and wheeled him around to put him back into the cold chamber. She pulled open the door, and jumped back, the blood draining from her face.

 

Sitting, perched on the sliding shelf, was a small bouquet of snapdragons. She was brought back to her and Jim’s first date, on which he brought her an exact replica of this one.

 

Or rather, this bouquet was intended to emulate the original.

 

She tapped her fingers on the gurney next to her, thinking. Jim loved games, and this was a game. She decided to play, snatching the snapdragons and marching to her desk. She texted Meena, telling her she was running a bit late.

 

Ten minutes later, she was staring the the screen, almost laughing to herself. As it turns out, Jim had given her a clue from the beginning as to who he was.

 

_Snapdragons: Legend has it that the suitor who hides a snapdragon has allure and an appearance of congeniality. From this concealment may have arisen the tradition that snapdragons signify deception._

Bloody perfect.

 

The arsehole certainly had the appearance of congeniality, and he was certainly full of deceit. It was also now blindingly obvious that he wanted to play.

 

Molly clicked the monitor off and strode out the hospital.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’ve been thinking; we should try a new class together! Your choice.” Meena smiled at Molly over her pint. “It’s been ages since we’ve done something new.”

 

Spying an opportunity, Molly pounced. “You know, I do believe you may be right. I know this one’s going to sound odd, but...I’ve been more and more interested in a martial art.”

 

“A martial art! Goodness, going to fight baddies are we? It’s certainly an out there choice.” Meena scrunched her face up, thinking about it. “You know, sure. I could always do with the self defense anyhow.”

 

Molly’s face broke into a grin. “Well then, when should we start?”

 

“This week, I suppose. Any idea which art we should try?”

 

Molly had been debating this the entire way to the pub. Without missing a beat, she took a large swallow of her pint, and set it down, before replying, “Judo.”

 

“Judo. Didn’t you used to compete in judo when you were younger?”

 

She had, in fact, thought it had been many years and she seriously doubted if her reflexes would work at all anymore, or if she’d be able use and throws or pins. “Yes, well, I’d like to relearn it.”

 

“Well, shit, judo it is then!” Meena cheered, always up for anything. “Another round then?”

 

They continued to catch up, and several rounds later and Molly was feeling happy and warm, though waves of sleepiness were beginning to hit her. “As much as I’d love to stay out, I do believe I should head home. Work in the morning, you know.” Molly made a face as she stood to leave.

 

“I would whine and complain, but I can see that will get me nowhere. See you in class?” Meena replied.

 

Molly nodded and walked out of the pub, heading toward the tube. It was of course at that moment that a black sedan pulled smoothly up to the curb, the window rolling down. “Would you care for a lift home, Doctor Hooper?” Anthea asked from the car.

 

“Is Mycroft with you?”

 

“He is not.”

 

Molly debated with herself for a moment before opening the door and seating herself. “You  know your boss has complex, right?”

 

Anthea smiled and turned back to her blackberry.

 

The rest of the ride passed in silence, until they pulled up to Molly’s flat. “Molly, about Mycroft having a complex,” Anthea started, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, “that isn’t even the half of it. Just...remember that.”

 

“Um, yeah...thanks, I guess…” Molly gaped at her, before heading up. She unlocked her door and entered her flat, only to find Mycroft perched on her sofa.

 

“Well, now I know why Anthea got so weird in the car. You really are Sherlock’s brother, you know that?”

 

Mycroft said nothing, staring back at her. A moment later, he stood and strolled over to her, swinging his trademark umbrella slightly as he did so. “Doctor Hooper, to what end are you enrolling in judo?”

 

Molly supposed she shouldn’t be shocked anymore, not really, though she couldn’t help it. “Are you joking? You really are watching me so closely? I did used to compete, you know.”

 

“Yes, I do know, though the last time you did had to have been fifteen years ago, and you haven’t gone near it since, so I must ask: why the sudden renewed interest?”

 

“Well, Mycroft, your brother is gone, so I suppose I needed something to fill all of my new found time with,” she snorted, walking over to the door and opening it, gesturing for his exit, “now if you don’t mind, I believe I’m rather tired. Good evening.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

She defied any logical explanation. That was all Mycroft could come up with. The simple, sweet pathologist with the affinity for cats should have been an open book for him to read, though all he could concretely come up with was that there was something she was intentionally holding back, and he couldn’t pry it out of her. Her surveillance had been stepped up, and yet, she was still a walking mystery. It was positively maddening.

 

_Why I should spend most of my waking hours ruminating on a pathologist, I’ve no idea._

 

_This bears further observation._

 

Mycroft resolved to crack the nut that was Molly Hooper, ringing his PA. “Yes, I’d like to know where Doctor Hooper will be attending classes at. That is all.” He stood, holding the phone absently. A very tough nut to crack, indeed.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Molly’s back hit the mat, hard. She blinked for a second, regrouping, before rolling onto her side and standing again to face her opponent. He gave her a moment to straighten her clothes before lunging forwards to grab her sleeve. She was quicker to react his time, fixing both hands on his sleeve on the same side and twisting in so her back faced him. She dropped to her knees, sending him flying over her on his back. She efficiently rolled in to pin him, feeling him tap out a moment later. She relented, smiling.

 

_Oh, I have missed this._

Molly had been back at judo for a few weeks, and the motions and feel of the sport had come back to her rather quickly. Meena, who had at first been enthusiastic, changed her tune once she realized how much hard, close contact it actually entailed. The sport was rough. Molly could be rougher.

 

Already, her legs were dotted with faint bruises from hard landings on the mat and and collisions with legs and feet. Not that it mattered. The only person whose opinion of her legs was of any consequence was far away, and she wore pants in the lab anyway. And besides, she felt strong and powerful.

 

She was putting her robes away in her bag after class, reflecting on the past few weeks. They had been largely uneventful, save for two more reminders of her second date with Jim. A bag of beans from where they had gone to get coffee, and a DVD of Glee. At the latter, she had barely blinked, murmuring to herself, “I never really liked that show anyhow.”

 

Molly straightened up, turning to leave, when she saw Mycroft by the door. He must have seen her expression darken, as he held his hands up in surrender. “I come only to ask you if you’d like to grab a bite. I won’t disturb you with questions, I promise.”

 

So this is how it was that Molly Hooper came to be sitting in a cafe with Mycroft Holmes, enduring an awkward silence. “Well, Mycroft, you were the one who wanted to have this little get together, so what shall we talk about? Or did you come here to watch me drink a glass of wine?”

 

He steepled his hands before answering, “I thought you might be interested in hearing how Sherlock’s getting on.”

 

Molly’s facade of indifference faltered as she felt a pang shoot through her. She had done fairly well in burying her emotions toward the man. “Oh? Is he alright then?”

 

“Surprisingly, yes. It seems I may have miscalculated.”

 

Molly didn’t know what to make of this, and elected to begin gathering her things rather than continue to think about Sherlock. She didn’t want to contemplate her feelings for him anymore, and sitting with his brother was somehow muddling her thoughts on the matter even more. “Listen, Mycroft. I’ve got to be off. Thank you for the update.” She stood and walked out before he could say anything more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next few weeks, a pattern emerged. Molly would go to work, John would stop by a few times a week, she would meet up with Meena once a week on Wednesdays, and she went to Judo twice a week. And after the Friday classes, Mycroft was always there and would go to get a drink with her. Her suspicion over his motives began to fade over time, and she began to get the sense that the man was rife with melancholy over Sherlock’s departure. So she sat with him, and allowed him to tell her any news he had of Sherlock, always deflecting if he ever asked her any questions. She couldn’t allow him to know.

 

For along with her general routine, there continued sporadic messages from Jim, which she met with increasing apathy. The encounters did seem to be getting less and less ostentatious. Her hope was that he was deciding she wasn’t worth the time; that she didn’t matter. A pretty good assumption from an outside perspective; Sherlock was gone, Mycroft was always being nosy anyway, and Mary was much more reclusive, being so near to her due date.

 

Indeed, Molly had become excellent at hiding things from people. She picked up the skill during Sherlock’s first absence, with the need to keep his secret. Now, she honed her skills, hiding from everybody. Friends, enemies, the inconspicuous bystander; she hid from them all. Still, though she was hiding, she didn’t want to lose her friends, and so, missing the companionship, she made the trek over to John and Mary’s one evening.

 

John greeted her at the door. “Oh, hello Molly, it’s been a while since you’ve swung by. Mary was beginning to wonder if you’d moved out of the country!”

 

Called out, then. Molly smiled at him, replying, “I’m so sorry, work’s just been crazy lately!” The universal excuse; used by many and believed by none. So much for her excellent lying capabilities. She made her way inside, walking to where Mary reclined by the fire. “Mary, forgive me. I haven’t meant to leave you high and dry!”

 

Mary gave a chuckle. “I believe I understand, even if John won’t. He’s been a bit bent out of shape since Sherlock went on assignment.” Her face darkened briefly, clearing quickly as she looked to John. “Care to grab Molly a glass of wine?” she called to him, before turning back to Molly. As he walked into the kitchen, she pounced on Molly. “Now then, what’s different about you? Something’s changed, and you wouldn’t have shuttered yourself away unless it were something big. Out with it.”

 

Molly froze, cursing herself for forgetting who this woman was. Of course she would pick up on something. She was close enough to know Molly’s mannerisms and quirks, and sharp enough to notice what the details that made Molly Hooper up signified. She was Meena and Mycroft and Sherlock, all rolled into one. So she stalled, recalling the expression on Mary’s face when she mentioned Sherlock. “Not until you tell me what the business with Sherlock is. You know something, don’t you?”

 

Mary fell silent, and Molly felt the hair on her neck prickle. _Something’s wrong._ “Mary. Tell me.”

 

At that moment, John walked back in and handed Molly a large glass of wine. Mary gave Molly a tiny shake of the head, and Molly understood, her trepidation growing. “Well ladies, I unfortunately am off. Going to pop in for a drink at the pub with Greg. I’m sure you two have more than enough scheming to catch up on though. Molly, good to see you.” With that, John kissed his wife, collected his coat and wallet, and strode out of the flat.

 

_How fortuitous_ , Molly thought. She turned her attention back to Mary.

 

Mary took a breath before looking at Molly. “Mycroft chose Sherlock’s assignment as an alternative to jail time for the Magnussen business. He knew Sherlock would prefer it. Mycroft’s never told me, of course, but I know what the assignment is like. I’ve seen it before. It’s the type that...well, Sherlock’s not meant to come back from.”

 

Molly felt as though ice water had been dumped all over her body. _It can’t be...no, he’d never do that…_

 

“He had no choice. Sherlock killed a man, in front of witnesses. It was this or going to jail the rest of his life. This way, he could hold out the hope that Sherlock could find a way out.”

 

“But he can’t.” Molly voiced what Mary hadn’t said.

 

“Likely...no”

 

Molly stared at her wine glass, feeling hollow. She barely registered what Mary was saying.

 

“So, tell me what it is you’re hiding then.”

 

“Are you kidding? You expect me to rave about relearning judo right after you drop the bomb that the man I’ve loved for so long is on a suicide mission?”

 

“If that were all you’ve been hiding from me, no. But that’s not all, is it? So tell me, what has happened?”

 

Something in Molly broke. The knowledge that Sherlock was likely never coming back combined with the cryptic clues and threats was suddenly too much to bear alone, and she spilled everything. By the end of it, Mary’s mouth was hanging open and she had gone quite pale.

 

“You’re certain?”

 

Molly felt a palpable relief that this time, Mary seemed to take her word. She wasn’t crazy. “Yes, quite. Though….if...if what you’ve said is….true,” Molly drew a shaky breath, “then it-it makes sense that...he’s...you know, tapered off. I’m-I’m not the target, It was always him. And he’s...gone.” A sob escaped her before she clamped it down.

 

Mary seemed even paler than before. “Mary?” she asked, concerned for her.

 

Mary squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, Molly had an idea of what her next words were going to be. “Molly...I think I’m going into labor.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

It was too much. Sensory overload. Molly blamed herself for it all. The truth about Sherlock’s departure, Molly’s admitting what had been plaguing her, it was too much, and now Mary was in labor. The doctor assured them that Mary in little danger, that she was certainly far enough along, it being her first pregnancy and all. Nonetheless, Molly felt responsible and guilty as hell. John had met them at the hospital, and gone in with Mary. Now, Molly sat alone in the waiting room, contemplating her next move.

 

She was sitting, thinking about getting a cab home when Mycroft strode in. He looked about, and spotted her almost immediately. He strode deliberately over to her, opening his mouth to speak, though he never got the chance.

 

Molly felt herself overcome with fury; at Sherlock, at herself, and finally, with the man standing in front of her. "Were you ever going to tell me? Was it all a great joke to you? Poor, simpering Molly, pining after a lost man. Look at her, thinking he'll come back to her once again. How _could_ you?" She spat venomously at him, standing. Her frustrations came spilling out, unchecked, flooding the man whom she knew had nothing but unfortunate circumstance and a forced hand in the ordeal.

 

Mycroft looked at her heavily. "Because I had no choice in the matter," he sighed, vocalizing what she had already known. A man out of options.

 

Looking at him through wavy vision, she saw that he was wrecked. The significance of the emotions she saw simmering under his surface caused her to look away, almost bashfully. She realized she shouldn't be privy to such a private moment with him, and yet, in her interminable way, she had somehow stripped it out of him. She may have lost the man she loved, but he had lost his brother, the only man who could hope to compare to him in wit. And now he was alone in the world.

 

A lonely existence, indeed.

 

The similarities between herself and Mycroft Holmes dawned on her. Both of their worlds had revolved around Sherlock, and they had both given so much in order to keep him safe. All for naught.

 

Molly sunk back down into her chair, dropping her head into her fists. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

Mycroft looked down at her, before sitting, a puzzled expression on his face. The silence stretched between them for a few moments before he broke it. “Mrs. Watson is expected to pull through the delivery alright?”

 

“Erm, yes, the doctor said there really shouldn’t be any complications.”

 

“Since there seems to be nothing more you can do here, would you like to go have some dinner, Doctor Hooper?”

 

Molly looked up at him before breathing in deeply. “You can call me Molly.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly sat across from Mycroft, feeling an echo of the last time they had been at a cafe together, and yet she knew the circumstances were different. The ground had shifted dramatically, and where before Mycroft had seemed manipulative and shady, she now sat across from a man who needed somebody to commiserate with.

 

The two ate in silence, and when they stood up to leave, it was Mycroft who spoke first. “Doctor Hooper-”

 

“Molly.”

 

“-Molly. Would you like a lift home?”

 

Well, she could hardly say no to that. The evening was rainy and dreary, and she happily accepted. When they pulled up to her flat, she turned to Mycroft. “It’s been a really shitty night, and I for one want a drink. I also think you owe me some explanations. Care to come in and try to give them?” She wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

 

Mycroft relented, bowing his head. “Very well,” he intonated, following her out of the car and up the steps to her flat.

 

Molly didn’t look back at him, opening the door and making a beeline for the refrigerator. Once she had poured two large glasses of wine, she turned, handing one to him and taking a large draught. She stared at it, hoping that the alcohol would hasten its numbing advance.

 

Neither of them spoke, choosing instead to drink in silence, the memory of Sherlock hanging in the room. Molly finally spoke. “How did you deal with it?”

 

“What makes you think I did?”

 

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

 

“My brother has been sent off to his almost certain death, and I was the one who signed the order. How am I to deal with this exactly?” Mycroft nearly snorted. “Caring is not an advantage, but in this case, I fear I cannot help it.”

 

“I thought I had stopped caring,” Molly murmured without thinking. “Oh god, I just meant...I mean, I thought-”

 

“It’s alright, Molly.” Mycroft replied, fixing her with a stare, so reminiscent of Sherlock when he was deducing her. It made her feel distinctly uncomfortable, laid bare, and so she polished off her glass of wine and poured another so she didn’t have to watch the gears in his head turn.

 

The phone ringing startled them both. Molly clumsily scrambled for it. “Hello? John?” she breathed, “ _What?_ Already? I-oh my gosh, congratulations! A girl! I just can’t believe it! Yes, yes, of course. Give her my love. Congratulations again!”

 

She hung up the phone, a goofy smile working its way across her face. “They’ve had a little girl! Lightning fast labor, apparently, but mummy and baby are healthy and…” She trailed off, realizing how out of place her joy was. Confusing and contradictory didn’t even begin to describe the night’s events.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, before polishing off her second glass. She’s always been just a bit of a lightweight, and the wine had her feeling a little fuzzy at this point. She ignored reason and reached for a third glass as Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her.

 

“It’s been a...day” she mumbled as a lame excuse.

 

“Molly, what did you mean when you said you thought you had stopped caring?”

 

She choked a bit on her wine. _Oh, well done, very graceful. Not at all suspicious._ “Pardon?”

 

“I don’t want to pry, but if I may be frank, I still believe there is something bothering you,” Mycroft continued, “and no, I am not talking about tonight’s revelations. What has been on your mind?”

 

_Just admit it. Come clean, it will all be so much simpler_. But no, she was too far in it to admit the truth at this point. “Nothing, Mycroft. I’ve lost Sherlock, and that’s a bit fucked up, no? But aside from this fucking gaping hole that’s been opened, nothing.” She swallowed her third glass of wine in one gulp. “And I don’t know how I feel about that, so I’m going to get drunk now. Cheers.” She emptied the bottle into her glass and raised it to take another swallow.

 

It was at this point that Mycroft set down his glass (he had not quite finished it) and carefully wrapped his hand around hers and pried the glass from her hand, setting it next to his. “Molly. It will be quite alright if you talked to me, I...assure you.”

 

She remained silent, staring up at him with wide eyes. She swayed slightly, feeling much more drunk than she had any right to. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again before grabbing the glass and slamming it down. She set the glass on the counter and tried to upright herself.

 

Bad choice.

 

Mycroft at once captured her in his arms. “Well, now, I think we’ve had enough for an evening.”

 

“I’m fine,” she insisted, “You really don’t need to help, I’m absolutely fine.”

 

Undeterred, he helper along to her bedroom bed., setting her on the edge of the bed. “Molly, I believe it’s time to say goodnight. However, I do hope that I can call on you again. You are...the only one who might understand what I’m feeling at the moment.”

 

Molly, for her part, had laid back and was barely acknowledging his words. “Hmmm, ta, Mycroft.”

 

“Goodnight, Molly Hooper.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


Mycroft arrived home, his brain buzzing with the encounter with Molly. He poured himself a glass of scotch and sat in his armchair, swirling the amber liquid around the crystal glass. His brain, normally so orderly, felt jumbled. Molly had gone in his mind from a rather simple to define woman who was obviously harboring a secret, to a woman who was unnervingly complex, steadfast, and yet still surprising.  

 

And he could not stop thinking about her. She had wormed her way inside his mind, and was attempting to break down the next barrier.

 

Sentiment.

 

A notion he had dismissed so long ago, a weakness in which, for the longest time, he had only had for a single person: his brother. Now, the pathologist was attempting to double that number.

 

He couldn’t say for sure how it had started, only that he could sense his walls beginning to crumble like old relics, once proud and seemingly impregnable, subject to the ravages of time. With the departure of the one person he had cared for, truly cared for, there was a hole left.

 

Ironic that the woman who should begin to affect this change should be the one who was in love with his brother.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Molly woke up feeling the effects of her indulgence the previous evening. She looked about, mildly disoriented before the previous day slammed her. The revelation about Sherlock, the odd evening with Mycroft, and Mary. Mary!

 

She shot up in bed, her head spinning. She attempted to ignore the mild hangover that was setting in, instead stripping off the clothes she had fallen asleep in and making a beeline for the bathroom. She bathed quickly, before throwing on the nearest baggy shirt and trousers she found and rushing out the door.

 

Thirty minutes later she was greeting little baby Jodi Watson with her blissful parents. “She’s absolutely incredible,” Molly crooned, staring down at the tiny bundle cradled in Mary’s arms, “Just perfect.”

 

John beamed back at her, too proud for words. He bent over and kissed his wife soundly on the forehead before announcing, “I’m off to get some coffee. Want one, Molly?”

 

She smiled in reply as he left the room before turning back to her friend. “Oh Mary, I’m just so happy for you. She couldn’t be any lovelier.” As if she had heard her, Jodi began cooing. Molly’s heart melted.

 

Mary smiled happily down at the little newborn in her arms, before looking up at Molly. “I can’t believe how lucky I am,” she paused before continuing, “I’m sorry to have given you such a fright! Are you alright?”

 

Molly wasn’t sure how to reply. She was still confused as to her encounter with Mycroft. “First off, odd you asking me that question. I’m _fairly_ certain its supposed to the other way around.” she said with a smile, which faded as she continued. “But honestly? I’m not sure, Mary. Everything’s different.” She fell silent for a moment, trying to formulate words. “While you were in the delivery room...Mycroft came by.” Mary’s eyebrows shot up as she continued. “He gave me a lift home and I wanted to interrogate him, and he came up, and I just got so angry that I started drinking, and...I think...I saw his human side? I don’t know!” She sat in the chair next to the bed.

 

While staring at her hands, she continued, “I think Mycroft Holmes has a heart, and I think it’s broken for his brother, and I think that he’s looking to me for somebody to relate to.” She lifted her eyes to gaze at Mary, who was staring at her, an odd expression adoring her face.

 

“I don’t hate him, though I feel like I should. I can’t.” Molly reflected mournfully. “He’s the only one who knows how I feel, and for that...I feel...drawn to him, I suppose.”

 

Before Mary could reply, John arrived back with coffee. Molly happily accepted the beverage and visited a few minutes more, before bowing out to head back home. She exited the hospital, sipping on the coffee, enjoying the chilly air on the walk home.

 

Along the way, she couldn’t help but muse on the the massive amount of stimuli that had been dumped on her in the in the past 24 hours. She was tired and worn out, and resolved to swing by her judo dojo to work out some frustration later.

 

She reached her flat, walking up the steps, and once she had let herself in, she flopped back onto her bed, dozing for a few minutes, after which she she resolved to get up and on with her day, determined to make it in to work. It was then that she noticed the card sitting on her nightstand. _Oh, fuck it all, how long has that been there?_ , she thought to herself, before snatching it up.

 

She tore the envelope, flipping the card open and skimming it.

 

**_Condolences on the loss._ **

**_xoxo_ **

 

_Well, fuck you, too_ , thought Molly. Perhaps this was his way of saying goodbye. She threw it down and ran down the steps of the flat until she reached the street.

 

A black sedan was waiting for her on the curb. She couldn’t catch a break, it seemed. Rolling her eyes, she yanked the door open and sat down.

 

Imagine her surprise when she realized the back of the sedan was devoid of anybody, and the driver wordlessly pulled away from the curb. She scowled when they rolled up to a rather posh looking flat. She got out, and hesitantly picked her way to the door, ringing the bell. The door opened, and she was shown inside to an office where Mycroft awaited her.

 

“I do have to go to work today, you know.”

 

“Your boss has already been informed that you are taking a sick day.”

 

Molly looked at him, dumbfounded, before shaking her head. "It's just as well; I didn't much feel like work anyway today. Now then, what did you want to see me for? I'm guessing you didn't call me in sick because you thought I needed the rest."

 

She hadn't intended to sound so mean, truly.

 

"I realize quite a lot happened yesterday. I wanted to see how you were dealing."

 

Instantly she felt abashed. She realized that she had been nothing short of corrosive to Mycroft, and her face softened. "I'm not great, but I'm doing alright." She looked at his face, a frown gracing her face as she took in the worry lines etched into his forehead. "How are you feeling?" she asked, walking closer to him.

 

He was silent, thinking for a moment before slowly replying, "I haven't allowed myself to feel, Molly. I fear what it should do to me."

 

Molly hadn't been prepared for Mycroft to utter such a  raw truth to her. Her hand shot out of its own accord and latched onto his, startling them both. "I'm sorry," she whispered, squeezing slightly before letting go.

 

She wondered if she had overstepped a line when he looked away, not responding. She was about to leave when he spoke. "Have you eaten lunch? I, for one, am starved."

 

She smiled, grateful that he didn't seem to mind her emotional side. "I'd like that."

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next two months, Molly and Mycroft made a routine of meeting up, both recognizing that it was Sherlock's absence that had brought them together. Molly continued with her general routine, but when she came home at night, she couldn't quite drive away the acute pain of heartbreak.

 

They tended to meet for leisurely lunches, with Mycroft regaling Molly with tales from his and Sherlock's childhood. It seemed like their relations had turned a corner; where it was once founded on suspicion and surveillance, an easy companionship had formed. Indeed, Molly couldn't fathom not meeting up with him anymore; his presence in her life was something as normal as hanging out with Meena, going to work, and visiting with the Watson clan.

 

She relied on seeing him. It kept her sane.

 

She refused to think about it any further.

 

Another notable occurrence over the last few months was the disappearance of Moriarty and the taunts he had been inflicting. Molly supposed that she was simply no longer a target; either way, she resolved to enjoy the newfound peace in her life, however bittersweet.

 

One afternoon, they had been enjoying one of their meals, both of them lingering longer than usual. Molly had been telling him of a particularly gruesome post mortem she had completed earlier, before stopping short, horrified. “Oh, I’m sorry! You probably don’t want to hear of all that, right in the middle of eating,” she moaned, mentally kicking herself.

 

Mycroft said nothing, instead chuckling. “It is fine, Molly, I have a rather strong stomach. And I rather like your stories.” He smiled at her and she felt an odd lurch in her stomach.

 

She quickly looked down, noticing her watch. She startled, surprised at the time. “Mycroft, I’ve got to go. I’ve got judo in an hour.” She gave him an apologetic smile before standing up. “I’ll see you around?”

 

He gave a small smile and a nod, and she left without another word.

 

Over the next hour and a half Molly worked through some of her frustrations and emotions in judo, sparring with the other people in the gym. When she left, she was still unsettled and confused.

 

Her thoughts were cloudy concerning Mycroft, and what his larger presence in her life meant. For someone she was so certain was a robot, devoid of emotion, the man was turning out to be even more faceted than Sherlock was, and she could no longer deny that she enjoyed her visits with him.

 

She reached her flat, sighing, and turned the key in the lock and swinging open the door.

 

“Did you know that I cared for you, beyond just the necessity in order to get close to Sherlock?”

 

She jumped, whirling around to see Moriarty sitting at the kitchen counter.

 

“I didn’t mean to, of course. But there’s something about you that draws us in.”

 

“Us? What do you mean ‘us’?” she asked flatly.

 

“Decided to become friends with the Ice Man, have we? Only ends poorly for you, you know.”

 

_Because everything else has gone so well._

He popped down from the counter fluidly, before sauntering up to her. “Oh, Molls, you truly have no idea, do you?” he murmured, gently clasping her chin in his hand, and tilting her face up to his.

 

Just before her instinct to fight him kicked in, he stepped back, appraising her. “Absence has done you well, Molls,” he said appreciatively, “but then, you always were so gorgeous when pining for somebody.”

 

Icy fury flooded her veins. “Get the fuck out,” she spat at him, her eyes flashing.

 

He grinned at her, clearly delighted in her reaction. He strode slowly toward her door, ghosting past where she was frozen, before turning as he opened the door to leave. “It’s about to begin, Molls,” he looked at the doorknob, before turning his stare to her, “Very soon.” With that, he exited, closing the door behind him with a note of finality.

 

Molly collapsed against the counter, her mind spinning. _What the fuck?_ She battled with herself, wondering what to do. This latest threat certainly seemed much more sinister than the last, and she thought he was done with her. She went back and forth before swearing under her breath and grabbing her phone.

 

“Mary? I’ve got a problem.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was tired. He was tired and dirty and bruised and sore and just _worn._ For months, he had been on assignment, knowing that his clock was limited. He wasn’t long for this world, which could have deterred him from giving a damn about anything (why would it matter?), but by virtue of being Sherlock Holmes, that wasn’t an option.

 

Not while the game was on.

 

Not while there was a case to be solved (nevermind that he’d never finish before, well…)

 

And so, for months, he had scraped along, deep in eastern Europe, searching for the kingpin in a human trafficking organization, circling in closer and closer to the heart of the organization.

 

And for once, it appeared that Mycroft may have miscalculated, improbable though that was. Sherlock was nearly six and a half months in, and, thus far, he seemed to be faring well, relatively speaking.  
  
The existence was miserable. Sherlock was accustomed to little sleep, but he was going a nearly a week with none, no showers, holing up in shacks to slip by unnoticed, though it seemed to be paying off. Sherlock could feel himself closing in on the last piece of the puzzle. He wondered for a moment if he just might survive the ordeal, dismissing it just as quickly.   
  
Mycroft was never wrong.   
  
Sherlock ducked into a divey pub, ordering two pints before curling up in a dark corner. He quickly gulped one down, resolving to sip on the other. If Mycroft wasn't wrong, then he would probably expire at the end of the case, which was quickly advancing. No need to rush it.  
  
For the first time in months, Sherlock allowed himself to think about what he was losing. His vocation, his family, and his friends. He tried not to give too much thought in general to the latter. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and John, John being arguably the most painful.   
  
He allowed himself to think about Molly, the woman who had given him so much, given him the means to escape death, and felt guilty for allowing her to believe she'd see him again. At least with John, he insinuated they'd never meet again.   
  
The truth was simply too much.   
  
The alcohol began to seep into his mind, and he gratefully sat in the dark, enjoying the rare treat of his brain willfully slowing down, and he reflected more on Molly, who had only ever been good to him. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was up to; how she was faring. Wondered if his brother’s odd interest in her was still active. The thought cause a small flare of...something in him. He refused to acknowledge it any further, and finished his second beer, loitering until the fuzz cleared before leaving.   
  
Time to continue on.   
  
Sherlock continued gathering clues for another week before he zoned in on a prostitution ring. All signs pointed to it being run by the leader of the trafficking organization.  
  
The instructions Mycroft had left him were to subdue and detain, if possible, and collect as much intel as he could. If he was unable to subdue and detain, it wasn't as if he'd never killed before; not anymore. After reflecting on it, Sherlock set about to complete his final task, and he broke into the main facility, heading for the heart of it.   
  
It was quiet. Suspiciously so.   
  
He crept along, not seeing anybody. After fifteen minutes, the hackles in his back began to raise. Something wasn't right.   
  
He turned to flee, sensing he'd been discovered. As he felt something collide with the back of his skull, he thought, _too late._  
  


* * *

 

  
Sherlock came to slowly, fading in and out. A dull ache was pounding in the back of his head, and he was in a dark room, eerily reminiscent of the one he had been detained in prior to Mycroft pulling him back to England the prior year.   
  
He attempted to shake off the pain in his head (difficult to do; possible concussion) and take stock of what his options were. A quick look about told him there weren't many.   
  
The door to his holding cell creaked open, and a young man strode in. He had sandy blonde hair, stood at a considerable height with a strong build, and walked with purpose. Overpowering him was out of the question.   
  
The man strode up to him, noticing he was awake, and seized his hair roughly. "The famous Sherlock Holmes. We were wondering when you would make your appearance in our humble abode."  
  
British accent. Interesting.   
  
"I wonder why you bothered to wait, if you knew I was coming. Why not seek me out?" He questioned the man.   
  
The blonde man gave a sinister grin. "Orders, Mr. Holmes. Wouldn't dare go against them. Needed to wait, have you come to us. And here you are. Boss is never wrong, you see."  
  
Something prickled at Sherlock's neck.  
  
"I see. And your boss would be?"  
  
"Not quite time yet, Mr. Holmes. We're going to have a bit of fun first." The man replied with a sneer.     
  


* * *

  
  
Mycroft was sitting at his desk, having just poured a glass of scotch. Observing its rich depths, he contemplated it, before his thoughts drifted to the pathologist who had occupied a rather large swath of his life in the days of late.   
  
Molly Hooper. He almost smiled at the thought of her name. It was of no secret to him or his PA that he was now harboring...fond thoughts of her. Not that he would ever make a move towards anything, no. But the fact remained that he was rather taken with her. Her large, warm eyes, the sincerity in everything she said and did...very fond of her indeed.   
  
He had never allowed himself to get so close to another human before, or care so much, with the exception of his brother.   
  
Sherlock.   
  
At the thought of his brother, his smile dropped, remembering that his assignment had crossed the six month mark.   
  
It wouldn't be long, then.   
  
He picked up his drink and took a deep draught from it, attempting to steer his thoughts away from his brother. He paused, before downing the entire glass. He set it down, staring ruefully at it. A conversation echoed in his mind.   
  
_“Exactly. So he's different? Why would he mind? Why would anyone...mind?"_  
  
 _"Good heavens. Sherlock, I'm not lonely."_  
  
 _"How would you know?"_  
  
The memory shook him. How right his brother had been. He was lonely; he missed Sherlock, and he wished he could completely fill the emptiness with Molly.   
  
Before his thoughts could spiral further, his phone buzzed in the table. He blearily picked it up and looked at it, before sitting ramrod straight.   
  
A picture of Sherlock greeted him, strung up, dirty and beaten. Blood trickled down his torso in rivulets, and a colorful assortment of bruises adorned his skin.  
  
All of this was nothing, however, compared to the look of anguish that was currently adoring his brothers face. Mycroft had never seen such emotion emanate from Sherlock. It wasn't enough that he should lose his brother, apparently. He was now going to be forced to watch the execution in slow motion.   
  


* * *

  
  
Sherlock collapsed to his knees, spitting blood on the ground. For the past two days he had been beaten and tortured. He wondered what his captors were waiting for; why it was being drawn out.   
  
He looked up, spying the blonde man, patiently waiting for him to stand back up for another round. Slowly, Sherlock heaved himself back into his feet.   
  
The man smiled at him. "Do you know, Mr. Holmes, why you are still alive?"   
  
"The thought had crossed my mind, though I'm guessing 'mercy' isn't the answer."  
  
"Strict orders that you know what's happening. That you should be able to watch."  
  
 _What on earth...?_  
  
"You see, Mr. Holmes, my boss...well, he owes you still."    
  
 _No..._  
  
"Owes you a fall. And it didn't quite pan out last time. But never fear, he always makes good."  
  
 _No. No, not possible. I watched him die, he's gone._   
  
Sherlock didn't realize he was muttering aloud until the man began to chuckle. "You faked your death, what makes you think he wasn't prepared to do the same? And now, you're here, and the one who counts most to you...well, they're a bit...vulnerable, you see? And you're going to get to watch it all happen!"  
  
Sherlock was numb. "John...?" He mumbled.   
  
The man stared at him. "No. Not John. You didn't think you could truly hide it, did you? You can pretend all you want, Mr. Holmes. It won't change the outcome."  
  
It clicked. "Molly" he whispered, beginning to shake a bit.   
  
The man grinned. "That's right. The other good doctor. You see, boss knew you cared before even you did. Ain't even told you the best part yet."  
  
Sherlock looked at him, desperation creeping into his face.   
  
"See, when you were undercover in Serbia, you came really, really close to dismantling his network. Last piece of the puzzle, right you were. Your big brother though," he broke off, chuckling before he recovered, "your big brother was so desperate about a terror threat, that we planted, that he pulled you out before you could truly finish."  
  
His words hung in the air, slicing into Sherlock slowly, flaying him. He found his voice to ask a single question. "Who are you?"  
  
"Funny you should ask. Think you knew my dad, helped set it up. Name's Sebastian Moran."  
  
 _Moran. Lord Moran._ “You’re Lord Moran’s son,” spat Sherlock.

 

 

“Right you are. Now, My father helped to pull you out of your ‘death,’ and for the last few months, we’ve been...playing with Doctor Hooper.”

 

Sherlock’s blood began to boil.

 

“Ever since we realized that she was instrumental in your survival, we knew that we needed to make it up to you. And once we realized how deeply you do, in fact, care for her, we knew we needed to make it special.”

 

Still trying to make sense of it, Sherlock asked, “You keep saying ‘we’. Why?”

 

“You already know. We’re a team, Jim and I. Us against the world. Though I tended to stay out of the spotlight, hence why both the Holmes men overlooked my existence. At any rate, we’re almost ready. The final scene is about to begin.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly had quickly enumerated her problem to Mary, who listened intently. When she was finished, Mary was somber. “You’re coming over, and you’re staying until this is sorted. Right now.”

 

Molly didn’t bother to argue, and set about tossing her clothes into a duffel.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock violently jerked his head up at the man’s words. _Molly_ , he thought, panicking for her. She was in danger, and it was because of him. A world in which his pathologist (when had she become his?) was not an option. He scoured the room as Moran turned and left for a moment. _Nothing, nothing, there must be **something**_. He tested how much leeway he had, being strung up by his arms. Not terrible, but it would be enough. The next part would be the hardest, and he had only moments.

 

Taking a breath and bracing himself, he violently flung himself to the side, managing to dislocate his wrist. The pain exploded in front of his eyes, and he clamped down on the grunt that threatened to escape his mouth. He worked his hand side to side, giving a final, hard tug. His thumb popped out of socket as his hand squeezed out, scraping along the metal cuff, drawing a jagged, bloody line.

 

But his hand was free. And not a moment too soon. Sherlock heard the door creak open again and seized the cuff, wrapping it around his wrist so he still looked chained. He only hoped his adversary wasn't as clever as Moriarty. He snuck a look at what he was doing and saw him wheeling in an old TV.

 

"Got to get set up so you can watch it all happen," chuckled Moran, before turning and grabbing a bat on the floor. "But we've got a bit of time, so may as well have some fun first." With that, he took a swing at Sherlock’s stomach.

 

Sherlock reacted quickly, swatting the bat with the forearm of his free hand. Surprise was on his side, and Moran stumbled, not expecting the movement. Sherlock took the opportunity to lunge and grab a length of flogging chain that had beef out of reach before, wrapping it around his wrist. He struck out, landing a blow to Moran's head, knocking the man to the ground. He lashed out several more times, ensuring the man was unconscious before rifling through his pockets for the key. He freed his other arm, and ran out of the room. There wouldn't be much time to get away.

 

He crept through the darkened corridors, darting away from view before he made his escape. As he burst into the street and began to run, he could hear the alarm begin to raise behind him. He ran until his lungs burned and he had put a considerable distance between himself and his prison. Only then did he duck into a phone booth, dialing the only man who could get him home fast enough.

 

"Mycroft. I had to break out. What? No, no I got away. What? Listen! They're coming for her, Mycroft. For Molly. Get. Me. Home."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft hung up the phone, feeling dazed. His brother wasn't going to die, it would seem.

 

Molly was.

 

Arrangements were already being made to collect Sherlock at once and fly him back, and he had sent Anthea to find Molly and bring her to a safe location. He only hoped they weren't too late. He clamped down on the cold, sick feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly had packed in a hurry, haphazardly throwing garments into a duffel. All that occupied her mind was fleeing to the Watson's as quickly as possible. She grabbed her bag, and headed for her door, closing it behind her and running down the stairs to the street. The evening air was quiet and still, though she could hear cars driving on the next street.

 

As she looked about for a cab, she felt a strong hand clamp down on her mouth. Immediately she began to struggle, nearly upending the man holding her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed a car pulling up, and a sweet smell coursing through her nostrils. The fight that had arisen in her died just as quickly as the chemical sapped her of strength.

 

_Who uses ether anymore, honestly?_ was the last thought she had before they tossed her in the back seat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six hours later, Sherlock Holmes was back in London, fresh off the jet Mycroft had mobilized for him. He raced off the plane and into the sedan that was waiting for him. "Did you get her? Is she safe?" He demanded to his brother.

 

Mycroft was silent, and Sherlock quickly read the truth off of him. His face darkened. "Tell me she's safe, brother mine." Sherlock's voice was hard as steel.

 

"She's missing, Sherlock. Mrs. Watson has informed us that Molly was supposed to go to their flat earlier this evening, that she had had a visit from James Moriarty. She never showed up." He gave Sherlock a hard look. "We have our best people on it."

 

Something in his demeanor was off. Sherlock shrugged the nagging feeling away; there were more important things afoot.

 

"What I should like to understand is where your 'best people' were when she needed them?"

 

"Sherlock, there have been months of silence, we all assumed it was a hacker; surveillance has been limited."

 

"She's been taunted for months."

 

"Clearly. However, for some reason, she chose not to come to us for help. She hid it," Mycroft continued, looking surprised, "she hid it so well."

 

Guilt wracked Sherlock. Had he not dismissed her so easily, all this might have been prevented. Attempting to shove the feeling away, he lashed out. "Another thing, brother. My captor informed me that the reason she is a target is that I wasn’t able to complete dismantling Moriarty's network.” Mycroft’s face dropped at his words, and he continued, “One stone was left unturned; you pulled me out before I could find it. **You** , Mycroft, made a mistake, and now Molly Hooper is paying the price.”

 

The blood had drained from Mycroft’s face. Sherlock was surprised at the intensity of his reaction. He knew his brother hated to be wrong, but this seemed excessive for his normally reserved older brother. Unless…

 

“No. Do not tell me, brother mine, that you decided to act like a human for once. Do not tell me you’ve fallen for Molly Hooper.”

 

Mycroft looked at him, more lost than Sherlock had ever seen before. Fury, jealousy, and possessiveness flooded Sherlock, even as Mycroft spoke. “Don’t we have more important things right now, such as finding her?” With that, the sedan pulled up to Mycroft’s office, and he got out. Before he strode inside, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Is it so surprising, that the woman who awoke such sentiment in you, should also have the capability to do the same to me?”

 

Sherlock knew he would need to find a way to shove down the urge to tackle and slowly dismantle his brother, and instead use his mind to find and recover his pathologist, but the task was proving near impossible for him. A sick sensation settled in him as he wondered, _has Molly moved on from me? Have I lost the chance?_ Truly, he had never realized before that he had wanted it. How much she meant to him.

 

Moriarty, however, had.

 

The thought sobered him, and he strode in after his brother, intent on bringing Molly back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly awoke slowly, her eyes heavy as she fought to open them. They didn’t want to cooperate, and she rubbed them, pleading with them to adjust to the harsh light. Cracking them open, she looked around, the room still fuzzy. Cinderblock walls, stained concrete floor, a single small, high window, and the dingy twin bed she was currently laying on. A bleak place, indeed. The window filtered in grey light from the cloudy day outside.

 

Well, at least she wasn’t locked away in a dungeon, then. She wondered what the next move would be. Cleary, Moriarty had escalated the game. She wanted to be nervous, really, she did, but in truth she was just tired.

 

Tired of pretending that everything was fine; that she was whole. She had never been so broken before, with Sherlock leaving, and with her...whatever it was, with Mycroft. And then there were the reminders of the fling she had had with Moriarty, back when he was Jim from IT.

 

The room Molly was entombed in seemed like a fitting realization of her clouded mind. A tear slipped down her cheek and she sat up and began to wait for what was to some next.

 

She would sit and wait for hours.


	10. Chapter 10

“Where would he have taken her? Why haven’t we heard anything yet?” Sherlock was beginning to lose any semblance of self control he had been maintaining. “He wanted to dispose of her so that I should see, but he can’t play that card any longer. So what’s he waiting for?”

 

Molly had been missing all night and it well into mid-morning. There wasn’t much to go on; her duffel bag left outside her flat, dropped on the ground, and a cloth discarded near it that smelled faintly of ether. Cleared up where she was taken. Sherlock was sitting in his own flat, hands steepled while Mycroft, Mary, and John milled about.

 

“Let’s examine everything again,” Mycroft said as he sat across from Sherlock, “I fear it’s possible we...may have missed something. It has been known to happen.” He added snidely.

 

Sherlock’s eyes darkened at the roundabout mention of the woman. “Fuck off, Mycroft. Duffel bag packed for a few nights, clearly in a hurry; this is nothing new, we already know from Mary that she was heading over there as fast as she could. The cloth is clearly how they took her with little struggle. Soaked in ether, it would have rendered her unconscious almost immediately.”

 

Mycroft was turning the cloth over in his hands, thinking. “It seems strange to me that they would just drop the cloth, no? Especially when she would not have afforded much of a struggle, not when-” He cut off, eyes snapping to Sherlock. “This was planted, Sherlock. Look,” he passed it over to Sherlock, pointing to the corner. A small, delicate monogram was embroidered, almost undetectable, having been bleached to blend in.

 

Sherlock sucked a breath in, cursing himself for the oversight. He’d never dreamed that there may be such an obvious clue. It was a small cafe, where Molly had once bragged that she and Moriarty had gone for coffee. “I know where she is,” he announced as he sprang into action, while in the back of his head, he couldn’t help but wonder, _why there?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

The room was chilly, and goosebumps had raised themselves up and down Molly’s arms. She fought down a shiver as she stared at the ground. She had watched as the the faint grey light gradually brightened as the day grew longer. _I understand Sherlock when he got bored so much better now_ , she thought ruefully. The latch in the door suddenly opened with a clang, and the door swung open, and she jumped at the sudden noise.

 

Moriarty stepped in, hands in his pockets, the door closing heavily behind him. “Well now, settling in are we?” he asked in a lilting voice, wandering closer, “Sorry to keep you waiting. We ran into a bit of a snag, you see.” He shrugged nonchalantly, looking at the ground as though bored by the whole affair.

 

Molly said nothing, staring back at him. “We had such a great plan, it was really something special. Sherlock must have thought he was so very far above it all; didn’t even realize what you meant to him. I knew though. I knew, because I felt it a bit, too. Something about you, I suppose.” He stood in front of her, a storm suddenly brewing in his eyes. “What I didn’t expect was for you to attract more than one Holmes boy, or to provoke Sherlock into such violent action.”

 

Molly froze, unsure of how to react. “Sorry?” she choked out. _Something’s happened, oh god…_

 

“We had a plan, that you were supposed to be his final undoing. Make him watch while everything he cares for burns.”

 

_What?_

 

He bent over her, placing his hands on her cheeks and looking deep into her eyes with intensity, before leaning over to whisper in her ear, his words ghosting over her skin. “It’s always been you, Molly.” The effect was profound, her heart suddenly hammering. Too many thoughts began to cloud her mind; Sherlock, care for her? Nonsense, not possible. And what did he mean, make him watch while-

 

Oh.

 

So she was to burn, then. The force of the revelation knocked the breath out of her. She barely felt Moriarty’s lips press against her cheek as he murmured, “It’s almost time, Molls” before he pulled away, closing the door behind her.

 

The sound of the door closing galvanized her into action. She jumped up, pacing around the room, surveying her options.

 

There weren’t many. Molly bit down the panic welling inside of her, smothering the urge to crumple in the corner in fear. She grimly decided on a course of action, resigning herself to it. She’d have to be quiet, and there were no guarantees, but there was no way in fucking hell she was going to sit around to await execution. Not bothering to think it through, she tested the window.

 

He always had underestimated her. But then, everybody always had. She pulled her shoe off and used it to prop the window open (what kind of idiot doesn’t latch a window when he’s holding somebody hostage?) before she stepped back so she could run and launch herself up to it. The opening was small, and Molly had to squeeze through, scraping her shoulders and stomach along the sides. She had half her body through it before she realized why the window wasn’t latched.

 

She was four stories up, with fewer and fewer options. With a sick lurch in her stomach, she looked about, noticing the cafe they had gone to on one of their dates. _Fucking sick sense of humor,_ she thought, resolving herself to it. She pushed out of the window, managing to keep hold on the windowsill. She took a deep breath before launching herself as far as she could, aiming for the next roof over, a story lower.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft and Sherlock had gotten to the cafe as fast as they could, and had begun to search for a place that Molly could be held. Sherlock was trying not to despair, spinning on the pavement with his hands on his head. He looked up, blanching at what he saw.

 

Molly Hooper (she was alive!) was wriggling out of a window four stories up. He watched in horror as she launched herself out of it, hitting the next roof and disappearing from view. He took off as quickly as he could to get up onto the nearest building, barely noticing that Mycroft split off towards another.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her lessons in judo paid off as she struck the slanted roof, managing to take the fall without much injury. The next fall wouldn’t be so graceful. She rolled down, catching herself in the stomach on a pipe in the roof, knocking the wind out of her. She grimaced with pain before trying to shake it off to keep going. Resetting, she stood and ran to the next roof over, a flat building. An external staircase wound down the building and she fled as quick as she could.

 

Not quite quick enough, it would seem. From the other side of the building, she saw two men heading for her. Before she could get down, they were upon her. She managed to throw one into the railing where he stumbled and collapsed to his knees, but the second got her in a vice grip. She was losing. A last ditch effort, and she threw her weight back, nailing the lackey’s kidney with the railing. He grunted, and she used the disadvantage to kick out, hitting the downed man in the head solidly, and fell to her knees to toss the other over her shoulder, dropping him over the edge.

 

She heaved a few breaths, before shouting registered in her ears. She looked up, and with a shock saw the Mycroft sprinting towards her.

 

Hope exploded in her stomach; hope that she might just survive. As he reached her, she could see the worry etched there that was being replaced with relief. Not bothering to speak to her, he clasped one hand on the back of her head before leaning in and kissing her soundly on the lips. She bent back, instantly lost, her hands instinctively curling into the lapels of his suit jacket. Her body was humming with relief and shock and good _god_ the sensation of his lips working against hers. He pulled back to look at her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him over Mycroft's shoulder.

 

Sherlock.

 

She gaped at him, and Mycroft visibly stiffened, before placing a hand on her lower back. “We need to keep moving; it isn’t safe here.” Molly allowed herself to be steered down the stairs, heading to the street where a car was waiting. She clumsily clambered into it, Mycroft sliding in next to her. She stared at the floor when the other rear door popped open and Sherlock dropped in, fury emanating off him in waves. Her face burned and she stayed like that the entire car ride. When the car came to a stop and both brothers got out, Molly slowly followed, drifting up the steps to 221B slowly.

 

Upstairs, John and Mary were waiting. “Oh god, you’re alright! Oh, we were so worried!” Mary had thrown her arms around her, snapping Molly out of her fugue a bit.

 

“Ah, yes, well, erm...I’m alright. Just a few scrapes.”

 

Sherlock’s attention snapped to her. “Where? Did he hurt you?” His eyes were probing, looking for the offending injury.

 

Molly faltered, noting those were the first words he had spoken to her in months. “No, I’m fine, I just scraped myself up a bit going through the window-” She broke off, trying not to gasp as he lifted the lower hem of her shirt, exposing the five inch cut running down the upper curve of her hip. She looked away, unwilling to see the odd mix of emotions running across his face.

 

“I’ll help you get that cleaned up, come on then, Molly.” John stepped in, noticing her discomfort. She smiled gratefully and followed him to the bathroom, where he closed the door. “It will probably just be easier if you go off with your top, if that’s okay with you.”

 

Molly didn’t argue, working the buttons to her blouse open and tugging the material off her shoulders. Her torso was already beginning to blossom with other bruises from banging against the small window and the roof. John noticed them as well, his face turning serious. “You’re lucky you don’t need stitches, Molly. This is going to sting a bit.” With that, he began to clean the wound as she gritted her teeth. “So, how come you told nobody what’s been going on the last few months?”

 

Molly sighed. “Because the first time I tried, nobody believed me. I began to wonder if I wasn’t just crazy. And then I began to think that he’d forgotten me.” A beat later, she added, “Because I’m an idiot, apparently.” John finished bandaging her and she pulled her blouse back on her shoulders, buttoning herself up again. “Either way, it happened, and we’re here, so we might as well get on with it.” She stood and made to leave bathroom, feeling a little guilty for the rude outburst. As she reached for the doorknob, it turned and Mary entered.

 

“John, we might come back and regroup later. It looks a bit like Sherlock and Mycroft are going to murder each other, and I think we’d rather not be around for it.” She looked at Molly, something a bit off in her expression. “I’d offer to take you, Molly, but something tells me I ought not to try.” Molly followed them out of the bathroom and back into the lion's den, where the two brothers seemed to be readying themselves for a fight. The energy in the room crackled.

 

“John and I are off, but we do expect an update, and we’ll need to reassess Molly’s security.” Mary spoke decisively.

 

“I’ll come with you,” Molly desperately wanted out of the flat that had become hellishly uncomfortable in the past few minutes. The tension was incredible.

 

“John, Mary, I’ll be in touch,” Sherlock brusquely said, “Molly, you are staying where you are. Last time you tried to go to John and Mary’s you didn’t quite make it. I believe you’ve had enough travels. You’ll remain here until we get this sorted.”

 

Mary gave her a sympathetic look as they walked out, and Molly was infuriated, absolutely blown away by the nerve of the man. “Sherlock, you can’t tell me what to do, you don’t own me!” she burst out, rounding back on him. The hard set of his features told her he wasn’t going to budge, and she spun on her heel, to angry to argue further. She bounded up the stairs into John’s old room, slamming the door behind her and hurling herself on the bed, her bruises protesting loudly as she did so.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft watched as Molly fled the room and slammed the door behind her. Sherlock looked back at Mycroft, seemingly ready to round on him, and he stared back at him steadily. Here we go.

 

“What. The. _Fuck_ , Mycroft.”

 

“Well it wasn’t as though I planned it, brother mine. It simply happened. I’m sorry you should be so offended by it.” Mycroft smirked at his brother.

 

Sherlock seemed speechless with anger, quite the unusual occurrence. “You know what? Let’s not even talk about that, let’s talk about how, right after a trauma, you essentially force yourself on the poor girl, as though she hadn’t been through enough?”

 

“She certainly didn’t _seem_ too traumatized,” he countered, antagonizing him, “Jealous?”

 

Sherlock stared daggers at him, before turning and flinging himself into his chair. It was too easy to provoke him sometimes, and he couldn’t help himself. Finding Sherlock’s attention averted for a moment, Mycroft took the opportunity to revisit the moment with Molly, savoring how very soft her lips were, how pliant she became in his arms. The signs of enjoyment and arousal were certainly there, though they were no doubt partly fueled by the adrenaline from the situation. Just as quickly, he remembered why she had so much adrenaline to begin with, and his smirk dropped.

 

He sat down opposite Sherlock, quite drained. “We both messed up, Sherlock. Both of us are to blame for Molly’s abduction.”

 

Sherlock turned a razor sharp eye to him, though Mycroft could tell he knew he was right.

 

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

Upstairs, Molly had been fuming at Sherlock. The stress of the day chipped away at her, and she closed her eyes, dozing off. She slowly awoke a while later, wearily sitting up. Her body ached and soreness was beginning to settle into her limbs heavily. Molly tucked her feet up, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. She mused on her current situation for a few minutes, before deciding that if she was to be sequestered in 221B, she may as well have a hot bath to drive away some of the tension in her limbs. She gathered up a towel and opened the door, listening intently. Silence. She made her move, slipping downstairs to the bathroom quietly, noticing little movement in the living room. She shut the door silently, before sighing in relief.

 

Molly surveyed the bathroom, taking it in for a moment. It was a surprisingly cozy bathroom, with rich, red walls and dark cabinetry. The focal point of the room was the imposing claw foot tub oversized and deep. She almost moaned in anticipation just looking at it, before she turned to the cabinets and began to rummage around. She located some epsom salt and turned the tap in the tub on as hot as it could go. She dumped in a generous amount of the salt and a bit of soap, watching the water foam richly as the tub slowly filled. The bathroom quickly became warm and steamy, and she gingerly disrobed, painstakingly guiding her clothes over her sore body and leaving them in a pile on the floor. She stepped into the tub and lowered herself, hissing as the hot water hit the scrape along her hip.

 

She stretched out, enjoying the feeling as the heat melted into her. She had been so cold in the room for so long, and she wiggled her foot as her toes began to thaw. Molly closed her eyes, and began to drift. She stayed in the tub long enough that the water began to cool, and instead of getting out and facing reality again, she pulled the plug and watched some of the water recede, exposing her bruised body, before turning the tap on again and hiding it under freshly scalding water and bubbles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the living room the brothers sat in stony silence. Sherlock was still glowering to himself when he heard the upstairs door slowly open and Molly’s tentative footsteps carefully padding down the stairs. He could hear the pain in her body, coaxing her muscles to walk, and it made him cringe to think of what she’d been through. He listened as the door to the bathroom quietly opened and then clicked shut. Sherlock closed his eyes and could almost see her movements, searching for bath supplies, finding them, and starting the tub to fill. A soft splash as she stepped into the bath, and then all was still, almost eerily so. After an hour, there had still been no noises coming from the room, and Sherlock began to worry just a bit. It was entirely too quiet. He stood and walked over to the door, listening intently.

 

Silence.

 

He could barely hear the slow _drip drip drip_ from the tap, but aside from that, there was no sign of life in the bathroom. The events of the day had been too exciting for Sherlock already, and he resolved to ensure that she was alright. Mycroft had noticed his interest and walked over to observe himself. They looked at each other, setting aside their anger and instead feeding off of the other’s insecurities, before they both decided on a course of action. Sherlock took a deep breath, before seizing the doorknob and throwing the door open.

 

Steam poured from the bathroom, and through the haze, Sherlock saw the outline of Molly lazing in the bath. He heard Mycroft take in a sharp breath and tried to ignore the flare of possessiveness that ran through him. Molly’s eyes flew open in surprise, and she jolted, causing a wave of water and bubbles to run over the edge of the tub and onto the floor.

 

He gazed at her, taking note of her hair, normally tied back, running down either side of her face in dark, damp waves before disappearing into the bubbles. The heat of the room caused her skin to glisten with moisture as steam rose about her face. Her shoulders gracefully sloped into the bath, which covered most of her. One of her legs was hooked over the edge of the tub, dangling, though she quickly tugged it back into the bath with her. Only the shadow of her body was visible through the thick bubbles on the surface. She looked stunning. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, never having had such a visceral reaction to a woman before.

 

Her mouth parted slightly as she looked at them, her eyes first turning to Mycroft, flitting up his body. Jealousy sprouted inside him. _Don't look at him like that._ Another feeling entirely blossomed in his gut when her warm brown eyes slid over, settling on him. It seized hold of him and crept up his spine, his heart suddenly hammering. He'd never known anything like it in his life before, but he knew instantly what the sensation was.

 

Arousal.

 

Sherlock couldn't help himself when his eyes drifted down her face again, resting where her clavicle gracefully curved into the bath water, the cloudy, foamy depths obscuring anything further from view. He heard his brother clear his throat, and guiltily looked up. He began to speak, attempting to distract himself from the spectacle that was Molly. "Any information you can give us, Molly; what did Moriarty say to you? Did he tell you what he wanted, what his ploy was by chance?"

 

Molly stared at him, and then raised her hand, dragging the warm water over her face before replying. "He said I was the endgame,” she sighed, “and he said that you had changed things when you-when you escaped." She bit her lip and looked down. Sherlock tried his best not to be entranced by the rivulets of water making their way down her cheeks and along her jawline before continuing down her neck.

 

"Was there anything else you remember?" Mycroft asked. Molly’s attention snapped back to Mycroft. _Unacceptable._ Her mouth opened to reply.

 

Sherlock didn't wait for her to elaborate, charging on, determined to nip whatever was going on between them in the bud. “Molly, I’m so sorry for what’s happened. I didn’t know. You see, Moriarty was able to slip by because brother dear got trigger happy with my extraction...” His voice faded away as Molly’s infuriated gaze turned to him.

 

“So you’re going to blame Mycroft?” she challenged him. Sherlock found himself attempting to come up with a reply, and failing miserably.

 

Mycroft, in turn, began to look rather pleased with himself. Not allowing him any slack, Molly turned to him again. “Not a word Mycroft; You aren’t exactly not to blame either. ‘Trigger happy with his extraction’? Meaning you didn’t let him finish with Moriarty's network?” Molly seemed to be getting angrier by the second. “Sherlock,” she continued, rounding back on him, “had you just fucking believed me _in the first place_ , none of this would have happened!” Molly paused, seeming to consider what had been said. She took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the water in front of her, steadying herself before continuing. “Get out. I can’t deal with either of you right now. Would you please shut the door, and let me bathe in peace? And when I’m done,” she said in a low tone, “do not come into my room. Just leave. Me Alone.” She stared at them with an expression of stone.

 

The conversation was finished; even Sherlock could sense that. As he closed the door, he looked at her once more,and  couldn’t help but reflect on the tableau laid out before him, and how very much like a siren Molly appeared, with the steam rising around her glowering face, ready to lure him onto the rocks. Truly breathtaking, indeed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as Sherlock shut the door, Molly let out a breath and relaxed against the tub, allowing her face to sink into the water, submerging her lips and exhaling, causing a torrent of bubbles. She couldn't get the Holmes boys, either of them, out of her mind.

 

The kiss from Mycroft had taken her off guard, though she had been well aware of his increasing affections for her. Her feelings on Mycroft Holmes were well and truly muddled. She couldn’t say she hadn’t enjoyed the kiss, though she wasn’t sure how much of that feeling was confused with the exhilaration of having just escaped Moriarty. The shock came when she looked over his shoulder and spied Sherlock. She figured pretty quickly that Mycroft may have intentionally kissed her so that Sherlock would see it. However, the reason behind Mycroft’s motive hadn’t dawned on her until the brothers had busted in on her moments earlier and she saw the reaction that Sherlock had when he looked at her. In that moment, she realized that Moriarty hadn’t been lying. Sherlock was into her in a big way, and it looked as though he himself were just figuring this out.

 

She closed her eyes and remembered the way he stared at her, his eyes burning as they drifted down, down, down...Molly allowed her hand to glide down her stomach along with the memory until her fingers rested in the small mound of curls at the apex of her legs. Slowly biting her lip, she let her index finger comb through them, her legs parting to lay against the sides of the tub. With a hiss, Molly gave a small swipe to the tiny nub, feeling it respond to her touch.

 

While Molly continued to gently work herself, rubbing up and down on herself, her mind couldn’t help but flicker to Mycroft, and the feel of his lips pressing against hers. Confusion as well as arousal flooded her, causing a fresh wave of shame to flood her. How could she be having thought of _both_ of them? She hastily shoved away how conflicted and guilty she felt. Molly’s thoughts once again turned to Sherlock, and she gently pressed a finger inside herself, letting out the softest moan as she did so. Her other hand reached down to join it, and she was well and truly lost, all thought deserting her. Molly could feel herself building, and her pace quickened. As it reached a crescendo, she let out the tiniest whimper, her eyes squeezing tightly shut. Her body pulsed around her fingers as release broke over her, stars in her eyes. Molly gasped a breath in and shakily pressed a hand to her forehead, staring at the ceiling.

 

Molly slowly came back to herself, the euphoria from her orgasm slowly fading, and her thoughts once again returning to her. Her emotions were now well and truly jumbled up, and what was supposed to be a relaxing bath was certainly anything but.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock watched as Mycroft walked to go sit in the living room and made to follow him, pausing when he decided that sitting in a room with him was too much to bear the moment. Sherlock turned to head back into his bedroom. He was passing the bathroom and froze when he heard the tiniest moan emanate from the bathroom. His mind flitted through the possibilities, quickly ruling out that she could be hurt in some way, until he came upon the thought that- _Oh. Is she…?_

Sherlock felt completely unable to move, overwhelmed, his mind feeling foggy all of the sudden. He knew that to continue to stand outside the door and listen in on Molly was beyond reproach, but he found that he couldn’t peel himself from the door. His trousers began to feel uncomfortably tight, and the air in the flat was far, far too warm. The thought of what she looked like in the bathroom combined with the knowledge of what she was doing was driving away what little rationality he had left. He found the resolve to push away from the door, stopping in his tracks when he heard her let out a small whimper. _Oh, good god…_

Sherlock practically ran to his room, pacing back and forth once he closed the door. He was acutely aware of the erection currently straining for freedom at his zipper, and attempted to ignore it. He laid down on his bed, his finger drumming against his stomach with anticipation. Every fiber of his being was screaming for him to tug his trousers down and take himself in hand, and he allowed his fingers to brush against himself. The sensations that the slight contact elicited nearly wiped his mind blank, and he yanked his hand away as though it had been burned. “It’s just transport,” he muttered to himself, realizing how very full of shit he was. Sherlock resolved to go into his mind palace to deal with the onslaught of feelings and sensations the past day had wrought on him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly had crept out of the bathroom, and, not seeing anyone, dashed up the stairs to the safety of John’s old room. She buried herself in the blankets on the bed and took a much needed nap for a few hours and awoke feeling much more rested and slightly less sore. She was now clicking away on her phone out of boredom as the afternoon stretched into the evening. Molly felt like Cinderella before she got glam, locked away in the tower, and she needed to get out and away from the Holmes boys to clear her mind. She needed to be far away from all the madness that had transpired, and forget everything, just for one night.

 

She needed to see Meena.

 

Molly picked up her phone to call the one person she knew would help jailbreak her from 221B Baker Street.

  
“Mary? Hi, yeah, I really need your help.”


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft was sitting in John’s chair at 221B Baker Street, unwilling to leave as long as Molly was there with Sherlock. God knew what stupid thing his brother would decide to do out of jealousy and spite once he left. He had broken into the small amount of liquor remaining from John, finding a serviceable brandy, and had been sipping on it for the last hour as the afternoon drew to a close and the evening advanced. Mycroft gazed into the glass blankly, his mind occupied with thoughts of Molly. His head snapped up as the doorbell rang. His interest piqued, he listened as he heard Mrs. Hudson talking to somebody, followed by footsteps up the stairs, and then Mary was walking in the door.

 

“Mrs. Watson? Back again?” Mycroft inquired, raising his eyebrows at her.

 

Mary smirked and moved to sit down opposite him. “Hello Mycroft. Where’s Sherlock?”

 

“Deep in the hallways of his mind palace, I believe. Practically in another world.”

 

“I see. Are you in love with Molly?”

 

Mycroft choked on his drink, the amber liquid burning as it passed down the wrong passageway, dropping the glass in the process. Mary smiled apologetically, jumping up and picking up the pieces. She disappeared into the kitchen, remerging with two glasses and pressing one into his hand. “Sorry,” she grinned at him, “but I may have heard what happened on the roof today.”

 

“Everybody knows, apparently.” Mycroft grumbled.

 

“Not John,” Mary chuckled, holding her glass up, “Cheers.”

 

“Cheers.” Mycroft took a large draught, setting the glass down. He stared at it, debating his words before speaking. “I believe I am...rather fond of Doctor Hooper.” Mary snorted into her glass, and Mycroft fixed her with a disapproving glare.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“As I was saying, it is true, that I have certain affections for Doctor Hooper. You might say I am unaccustomed to falling prey to such displays of _caring_ and _emotion_.”

 

Mary stared at him as though she were deciphering something. The two sat in silence for a few minutes sipping on their drinks before she spoke again. “So what are you planning on doing?”

 

“Of that, I am not entirely sure. The sticky bit is my brother. He...complicates..things..” Mycroft suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. “Mary?” he mumbled.

 

“Sorry,” she said once more, “but Molly needs a bit of time away from you boys, and I decided to be her ticket out.”

 

Mycroft barely registered the words as he drooped back against the chair.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It had taken some wheedling. It had taken some coaxing and imploring, convincing Mary that Moriarty wasn’t foolish enough to immediately come after her again, and that getting Molly the fuck out of that flat was the best thing for her. She straight up begged for the second part of her plan. In the end, her stubbornness won out. Molly was half certain Mary acquiesced simply to shut her up. In the end, Mary seemed more at ease and even a little excited for Molly as they pulled up to Meena’s flat.

 

“You’re amazing Mary, really, I can’t thank you enough. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Molly implored Mary.

 

“Ah, I’ve got to get back to the baby. Plus, Sherlock and Mycroft will be out for blood once they realize what I’ve done. Now, you have your phone, yes? And you’ve got the GPS on? And you have the tracker beacon?” Mary searched her face, concern breaking through for a minute. Molly nodded ‘yes’ to each question, pulling out the beacon to show her. Mary seemed satisfied, and kissed her on the cheek. “Be good, be bad, do whatever you need to do.” she chuckled before turning to go.

 

Molly walked up the steps to Meena’s flat, knocking on the door. She knew she had a finite amount of time to get ready to go out before they figured out that Meena’s is where she would go, and she resolved to get in, get dressed, and go out before her headstart became useless. When the door opened, she dashed inside, a grin breaking across her face. Here we go.

 

They got ready in record time, leaving her flat in just fifteen minutes. Molly had to borrow some of Meena’s clothes with the short notice, but that was alright with Molly. All of her clothes covered her up so much, while Meena’s were daring and flashy, and for once, for once, she didn’t feel like being boring, safe, dependable Molly.

 

She wanted to feel sexy and dangerous and all the things a woman _should_ feel, and Meena was being very encouraging of this attitude. They grabbed a quick bite of food from a small cafe before meandering on, winding up at a swanky bar for cocktails. Molly sipped on the sky blue aviation she had ordered, savoring the flavor. Gin had always been a favorite of hers, and the cocktail certainly packed a punch. It was perfect. It took the edge off her, and for the first time all day, she truly began to unwind a bit.

 

They had been out and about and off the radar for a few hours when Meena leaned over to Molly and asked, “Are you ready to go dancing?” Molly couldn’t agree quickly enough, and they left the bar and headed for the club.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace feeling just as frustrated and unsettled as before, and quickly decided he could go for a cup of coffee. The clock was edging up on 10 as he stood and made his way to the living room. His footsteps slowed as he entered, looking around the quiet flat and spying Mycroft, slumped over and asleep in a chair, a glass dangling precariously from his fingers.  

 

Sherlock paused, considering this. Mycroft would **never** sleep in a chair; in the unlikely event of him requiring rest he would almost certainly go home to a bed. The scene looked off. It reminded him of last Christmas, when…

 

As the pieces thunked into place in his mind, Sherlock turned and ran up the stairs, already knowing what he would find. He supposed that, on some level, he deserved the retaliation. You can hardly drug a pregnant former assassin and not expect them to find a way to get even. He flung open the door to John’s old room, confirming that Molly Hooper was nowhere to be found. Sherlock swore under his breath, turning to leave the flat and scooping his coat and scarf up as he fled out the door, leaving the unconscious Mycroft behind.

 

As he hailed a cab, he pulled out his phone. He generally preferred to text, but the situation called for something with more urgency. “John? Could you put your _dear_ wife on the phone please? Ah, Mary. I believe we need to have a little chat. Now kindly, tell me where she’s gone.”

 

Mary was obstinate at first, refusing to give any details and telling Sherlock to _kindly go piss off for a while_ , yet he continued to pressure her, listening for the small clues she gave away. As his fury was giving way to frantic panic, Mary seemed to take some pity on him, letting him in on Molly’s general plans. Sherlock realized Mary had never intended to let Molly go off with no one to watch her. She knew exactly where she was, and ultimately told him where he could find her, though not before laughing at the thought of him in a nightclub.

 

The cab pulled up near the club where Molly and Meena were last, and Sherlock climbed out, collecting himself for a moment before striding into the club. _Into battle, then._

 

The club was jam packed, a mass of swaying bodies, undulating to the deafening beat that was pounding out. Lights were flashing brightly, illuminating the fog that spilled onto the dance floor. Making out anything in this spectacle wouldn’t be especially straightforward. _Well, this is going to take a while._ He began to comb through the various rooms and levels.

 

Time seemed to stretch out as he was looking and he lost track of how long he had been there. The din was so loud he could hardly hear himself think, and the flashing lights were an assault to his eyes. As he began to believe that it was hopeless to find her in the maze that was the club, he spied her across the room, and his heart dropped.

 

She was dancing next to Meena, happily swaying to the beat with a drink in her hand. Behind her, however, was another man moving in time with her, and he was much, much too close. Sherlock took note of the rapturous expression on her face, and the clothes she had dressed in; a short, tight skirt and a top with a plunging neckline, seemingly held up around her neck by two tiny straps. He had never seen her look so exposed, grimacing when he saw her hand snake up behind her to latch against her dance partner’s neck for a moment. It wouldn't do.

 

His legs moved of their own accord, his mind occupied by the burning desire to remove the strange suitor from her side. When he reached the pair, he tugged the man backwards, fixing him with a look that clearly said 'back off, now'. The force with which Sherlock had removed him combined with the murderous expression he was donning seemed to be enough to instill some trepidation in the man, and he backed away, hands in the air.

 

Sherlock turned to face the back of Molly's head, smirking. She sensed the lack of movement from her partner and wiggled, putting her free hand in the air to wave while she danced. He knew he should announce himself; let her know that the jig was up and she was returning with him to the safety of the flat.

 

Sherlock Holmes had never been one to do what he should.

 

His hand crept up until it rested lightly on her hip. Molly responded immediately, leaning back into him. The flashing lights, the driving beat, the energy of the crowd, all combined with the excitement and adrenaline he'd experienced earlier; these were the things he told himself were why he allowed his body to begin to move in time with hers. It didn't take him long to lose himself on the dance floor with her, absorbing the sensation of her moving against him. He wrapped his hand around her fully, his fingers splaying out over her stomach and bent his head, resting it on the side of hers, breathing deeply and memorizing her scent. Lavender with a hint of spice; it was intoxicating. Sherlock wanted to press his lips to her neck, to see if she tasted as good as she smelled.

 

Of course Meena would have to ruin it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Moly had been enjoying herself, finally letting herself cease thinking about her recent ordeal. After a drink at the club, her and Meena had begun to make their rounds on the dance floor. It wasn't long before they found themselves dance partners, and they had been dancing and drinking with them for some time. It was wonderful.

 

She was really lost in the music, swaying back and forth and reveling in the sensation of the hard body behind her when she felt a sudden coldness. Figuring her partner had become momentarily distracted, she shimmied to get his attention again, smiling when she felt a warm hand land firmly on her hip. She gave a sigh and laid back, feelings the warmth of his body seep into hers. He was an attractive man, she mused, and she felt a stirring in her stomach when his head bent down and his arm wrapped around her possessively. She could feel his warm breath tickling her throat, and through her alcohol induced haze, she felt her body respond. Goosebumps raised down her neck and she felt her nipples begin to pebble as she bit down on her lip.

 

Molly looked up, intent on turning around to face her dance partner. When she caught sight of Meena's face, she froze. _Something's wrong_. Meena looked shocked, her jaw having fallen open, and she was staring at the space above Molly's head. Molly let her hand drift down to the arm that was wrapped around her waist, her fingers meeting thick wool. As she made to move away, a deep voice rumbled in her ear.

 

"Don't."

 

She would know that voice anywhere. Molly let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and instantly felt as though she were drowning as she felt him tug her closer. He kept dancing and her eyes slid shut, the heady feeling of his body pressed against her threatening to overwhelm her.

 

“Why you bothered to sneak out, I’ve no idea. You had to know I would find you,” Sherlock’s deep baritone vibrated in her ear, inducing shivers down her body.

 

“I just needed some space” she whispered.

 

“Is that so? Do you need more space right now?” he pressed her even closer to him, his lips now caressing her earlobe, his voice dark and tinged with...possessiveness? Molly nearly moaned out loud. “Couldn’t quite make that out,” Sherlock smirked as he took a step back, and she stumbled at the loss of contact. She whirled to face him, her warm brown eyes meeting his. He looked positively feral. “Were you enjoying yourself, with all of your ‘space’?”

 

_Ah._

 

Sherlock seemed to regain himself a bit, stepping back and tugging her along. “So sorry, Meena, but Molly’s going to be calling it a night now!” he called he stalked out of the club, Molly stumbling in his wake. At this point, all of the drinks she’d had had taken a strong hold on her, and she felt her vision swim. Sherlock hailed a cab for them, tugging open the door and waiting for her to sloppily clamber into it. He followed her into it, not having said a word since he pulled her outside, and mostly stared out the window during the drive except to check his phone, tapping out a message on it.

 

They arrived at 221B and Molly meekly followed him. They walked up the steps, and once inside, Molly sank down into the sofa, attempting to stave off the dizziness, which seemed to be subsiding a bit. She said nothing as Sherlock approached her, a glass of water in hand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once Sherlock had dragged Molly out of the club and into a cab, he found himself simultaneously furious and aroused. All he could think of was to get Molly back to his flat, both for her safety, and to get her alone...He shook the thought off quickly, noting that her intoxication level had increased rapidly (probably had a shot or two before he got there) and remembering that Mycroft had been unconscious when he left.

 

He checked his phone, noting several calls, voicemails, and texts from his brother. Not unconscious anymore, then. He tapped out a reply, stating that Molly was safe and he was taking her home.

 

He didn’t specify whose home.

 

He knew that Mycroft would see it and decide to leave, to have a shower and sleep in his own bed, which put Sherlock and Molly alone in the flat. Sherlock didn’t have dishonorable intentions, but he did want to watch over the pathologist to keep her safe. And he needed to think, which was something best done in his own flat.

 

So to 221B they went.

 

Sherlock noted that when they made it to the flat, Molly immediately dove onto the couch, and he poured water for her, walking over with it. He sat her up and pressed the glass into her hand. “Drink.” he ordered. She giggled at him, and he frowned slightly. “Molly, tomorrow will be much, much worse for you if you don’t drink this.” She squinted at him before tentatively taking a sip.

 

He nodded. “Better. Try to drink a little bit more, I’m going to see if I have any biscuits,” he said as he went and began rummaging in the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later as she was finishing the rest of the water and watched as she set it down. A drop hung on her lips and he had an urge to bend down and suck it off of them. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the visual, instead choosing to hand her the biscuits.

 

She began to nibble at them and Sherlock could tell the worst of the intoxication was behind her. How she’d feel in the morning remained to be seen. After she had eaten them several, she sat, staring at her hands. “Why did you have to come?” she sighed.

 

“Couldn’t very well leave you unprotected, could I?”

 

She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “I meant, why did you come back?” She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “N-No, I didn’t mean...I just meant, I...mourned you. I spent months thinking you were as good as dead. And-and, now...you’re back. And I’m just so-” she broke off, her voice failing as she pressed a fist against her lips.

 

Sherlock moved to kneel in front of her, gently prying her hand from her mouth. “I’m very sorry, Molly. I never meant to hurt you. Forgive me.” Inside, he was crushed, wondering if the regard she once had for him had been mourned and set aside along with his general memory.

 

Her eyes, which were glassy with a mixture of emotion and alcohol, widened as she took him in. Sherlock became acutely aware of just how close her face was to his, and he noticed her eyes darken and her mouth gently part. He had to know. Just once, he had to know what it felt like.

  
_It’s an experiment,_ he tried to convince himself as he found his body leaning forwards, clasping his hands on her cheeks before tentatively pressing his lips to hers.


	13. Chapter 13

Molly’s lips were the single most perfect tactile sensation Sherlock had ever encountered. And when her hand snaked up to curl around his coat lapel, he couldn’t help but slide a hand deeper into her hair and around the back of her neck. She responded by parting her legs, encouraging him to nestle into the space between them and press against her, and as he moved closer, her mouth parted and her tongue slipped out to gently swipe against his lips. Sherlock groaned at the sensation, angling his face to capture more of her lips and opened his mouth in return, encouraging Molly. The hand not anchored in her hair crept up to rest on her waist for a moment, before sliding around and up the planes of her back, and he held her tightly to him as though she were his only anchor to reality. She gasped and keened under him, and her fingers began to push the coat from his shoulders, abandoning the task when it puddled around his elbows before attempting to work the buttons of his shirt. When she began to fumble them, clumsily managing to open the top one, Sherlock was struck by her state of intoxication.

 

The thought made him feel as though he had been doused in ice water, dragging his thoughts back into rationality. Nobody had ever taken advantage of him when he had been high in the past, and for that he was eternally grateful. He was sure as hell not going to do so to Molly, as fucking perfect as it felt. He gently pulled back, pressing his forehead to hers. “Molly, I think you should probably go to sleep now.” She drew her head back, visibly confused, and he continued quickly. “Not that I don’t want to, I’m just...you need to rest.”

 

He silently begged her to not get upset, praying that for once he had said the right thing, and when she sagged down, he breathed a sigh of relief and took it as assent, scooping her up in her arms. Exhaustion was setting into her bones, and her head lolled against his chest as he carried her to his room, tucking her into the sheets. Molly seemed to fall asleep almost instantly.  Not able to tear himself away, he removed his coat and clothes, changing into night clothes, and laid down next to her, placing his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

 

He hadn't intended to fall asleep, only to lay down, but as he listened to the deep, rhythmic breaths of the diminutive woman laying beside him, his eyes became heavy and he, too, was lulled into a deep sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Why Molly awoke the first thing she noticed how warm and cozy she felt. She rubbed her eyes and looked about the room. As everything came more into focus Molly turned on her side and  was shocked to discover a sleeping Sherlock on the bed next her. Molly instantly begin to panic, trying to remember the events of the previous night. She remembered dancing with Meena at the club, and she remembered taking a few shots as well, and then things started to get fuzzy.

 

She remembered...touching a wool clad arm, and a deep voice in her ear, and then a vision of Sherlock, leaning in.

 

Kissing her.

 

She sat up, her trepidation reaching a peak. The movement jostled Sherlock, and he groggily rolled over, cracking an eye open to look at her. “Molly, why are you thrashing about? It’s early. Go to sleep.”

 

_Oh god, oh god...did we…?_

 

She took stock of their situation, noting that while he was in nightclothes, she seemed to still be dressed in last night’s outfit. Additionally, she was under the covers while he was resting on top of them. Molly relaxed a little bit, deciding that nothing had happened. Despite her self reassurance of this, Molly still had a number of questions about the events of the previous night in reference to how she wound up in Sherlock’s bed.

 

“Sherlock, why am I here?”

 

“You were in no state to go back to your own flat, I’m afraid. Thought it would be better for all if I brought you here.” He mumbled into the pillow.

 

Anger flared in her belly. “Oh really? I was doing just fine on my own, you know.”

 

Sherlock fixed her with a glare. “You were barely conscious by the time we got back here. I’m sure I saved you from doing something you might regret.”

 

Molly drew in a sharp breath at the unspoken accusation that she would have hooked up with a random stranger had she been left alone. Anger and embarrassment flooded her at his words along with resentment that he thought he had any right to decide who she slept with or felt entitled to pass judgement on her for it. Additionally, Molly was certain that while he had meant the comment to hit her hard, he could never have anticipated the true weight the comment had on her. Unbidden, pieces of a memory flashed through her mind. _The first, sweet kiss, his eyes looking into hers, the flare in her belly as his hand snaked around her lower back...the press of her body against the wall, against the mattress. Small gasps and moans, and the sweet ecstasy that followed…_ She swallowed thickly and looked away. _That_ was true regret. It had taken her years to become that intimate again and her face flushed with the shame from the memory.

 

She looked up at his face and watched as understanding dawned on him, watched his expression change from smug superiority to disbelief, and then to angered shock. _Damn_ him and his nearly supernatural ability to pick apart a person; to expose their innermost secrets and turmoil. She'd never told anybody about that night with Jim...with Moriarty. And now she had to watch as the grotesque truth washed over Sherlock after he had laid her darkest secret out bare.

 

It was suffocating.

 

"Something you want to tell me, Molly?" Sherlock's voice was hard and cold. He was angry at her? Indignation flooded her; he had no right to get angry at her over it. Molly threw the sheets off of her without replying, and made for the door. Sherlock followed her as she headed into the living room to scoop up her shoes and put them on.

 

"Molly-"

 

"Oh, what do you want from me?!" she burst out, rounding on him, noting with satisfaction that he reeled back at the vehemence of her outburst. "There's no point in me denying anything; you'll just read me like a fucking book! What would you like me to say? Do you want me to give you all the gory details, tell you how he fucked me, how he made me come?" She was yelling now, ignoring the shocked expression on his face. "Does it hurt your _feelings_ , that I willingly slept with him? Sad, simpering little Molly, jumping the first psychopath who looked at her!" She spun and headed for the door, pausing when she reached it. She looked over her shoulder at the frozen Sherlock as she held the door open. "Grow the fuck up, Sherlock," she spat, slamming the door behind her.

 

Molly caught a cab back to her flat, and headed straight to the bath to wash the remains of the last day from her. When she was nearly raw from the scrubbing she had given herself, she dressed and headed out to to find a quiet spot. She found herself wandering through a used book store, losing herself in the aisles and nooks that seemed to wind on forever and the scent of old books wafting down on her.The farther she meandered into the store, the quieter the noise from the street became, dampened by the twists and turns and towing piles of old paper. Perhaps if she walked deep enough into the guts of the store, she could find a new reality outside of the twisted one she was currently ensnared in.

 

Wistfully, she selected a few books and made to check out. She stopped back at her flat to drop off the musty books she had picked up, noting the agents who were stationed to watch her flat (they were much more conspicuous now), before taking off again to her favorite nondescript cafe to kill a few hours drinking excessive amounts of caffeine and eating sugary pastries while buried in the confines of a good book. She was going after coffee number three when she saw an an umbrella plant itself next to the table out of the corner of her eye. Molly sighed heavily, setting her mug down and looking at Mycroft.

 

“Couldn’t you two just let me have a day of peace? I mean, really. I know I’m being watched, I know I gave you the slip, sorry about that by the way, and I know you can’t help but act like an overbearing parent, but what I need is to be alone.”

 

For a moment Mycroft said nothing, his eyes flicking up and down, deducing her.

 

She hated when they did that.

 

Mycroft finally spoke. “I see you’ve made your choice then.” His voice was clipped, and he seemed agitated.

 

“I beg your pardon?” She tore off a chunk of her pastry and popped it into her mouth.

 

“You and Sherlock, I see you’ve chosen. I wasn’t sure my brother had it in him.” Molly nearly choked on her food, sputtering slightly.

 

“Mycroft, I don’t...um, Sherlock and I, we didn’t-we didn’t...nothing happened,” Molly fumbled, “I mean, he kissed me, but I was drunk and we just slept, and I-I...I don’t know what I want right now.” she finished lamely. “So please, could you please just drop it and let me eat my danish in peace?”

 

Mycroft seemed slightly appeased and nodded. “Would you mind terribly if I joined you for a while?”

 

Molly and Mycroft both knew that he was going to do whatever he damn well pleased, but she appreciated the pretense he afforded her by asking anyway. Molly considered him before inclining her head. “On one condition: I’d like to hear about you and Sherlock’s childhood. I’m tired of you two acting so damned mysterious all the time.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They had been chatting for an hour when Molly decided to pack it in. Five cups of coffee was truly excessive, and she felt the desire to get some genuine food into her stomach, especially considering how late into the afternoon it was getting to be. Caffeine and sugar after a night of drinking could only take one so far. She didn’t even question it when a sedan pulled up, following Mycroft into the back wordlessly. When they pulled up her flat, he got out to walk her up the steps.

 

She was outside her door and turned to say goodnight to him when she heard a loud rumble which hadn’t emanated from her. Molly let out a giggle before asking “Are you hungry? I’ve got some leftover roast.” She figured he would politely decline, as he didn’t seem like the type of man who would enjoy eating leftovers.

 

Instead Molly was surprised when he smiled. “Sounds delicious,” he murmured, sending a sudden flush up her chest. She attempted to ignore the sensation and turned and pushed into the flat, heading to the kitchen to pull out the roast and begin warming it up.

 

“Wine?” she called out, already pouring herself a glass.

 

“Please.”

 

Molly turned and walked to where he was leaning against the kitchen counter to hand him a glass. She held hers out. “Well, to the pirate and the little astronaut,” she proclaimed with a mischievous smile.

 

Mycroft grimaced. “You’re never going to let that go, are you,” he muttered, clinking her glass anyway.

 

“Oh, not a chance.” Molly giggled.

 

The timer on the over went off, and Molly turned to plate up the food for them. She set it on the counter and pulled up the stools for them, and they sat down and began to eat side by side. They ate largely in silence, occasionally making small chit chat. When they finished, Molly cleared this dishes and poured them each one more glass of wine. She stood, sipping it and zoning out when Mycroft set his glass down and came to stand in front of her. Her heart began to hammer as she became aware of his proximity and she froze.

 

“Molly, I know you think that what happened on the roof was the result of a long and arduous feud between two brothers, but I want you to know that that is not the case.” He gently pried her glass from her hands and set it behind her, taking another step in so they were almost touching. “And I know that the past few days have been emotional and stressful, but I wonder if I may be so bold…”

 

He leaned in and pressed a kiss on her cheek, and she reacted by closing her eyes and letting out a breath. Without thinking, she turned her head, allowing his next kiss to be bolder, this time landing square on her lips. Anticipation ran through her body and she reacted, angling her head to more fully encompass his lips. Mycroft felt her respond, and pressed himself to her, one of his hands wrapping around to the small of her back, sliding up to pull her torso even tighter while the other cupped the back of her head. Molly’s arms drifted to his sides, clutching onto him.

 

When she felt the tip of his tongue touch her lips, she moaned, opening up to him. It seemed to send him into a frenzy, and his hands flew to the backs of her thighs and he suddenly picked her up, placing her on the counter. His hands began to work at the hem of her blouse, ghosting under the material, causing her to shiver in delight. When he slid them all the way up, reaching to her bra strap to unsnap it, Molly brazenly opened her legs and tugged him closer so that he was sandwiched between them. Mycroft slid his hands to her breasts, and Molly arched into him as he continued his assault on her mouth.

 

One of his hands drifted down to reside on her thigh, gripping it slightly. Slowly, it began to inch upwards, bunching up the floaty fabric of her skirt as it went. Anticipation began to bubble up in her, expanding, and her breath began to heave. When he reached the junction of her thigh and hip, Mycroft broke from the kiss, searching her eyes for silent permission. Molly grabbed his face, pulling it back to hers, and he slipped a finger under her knickers, brushing lightly against her. Molly keened, moaning, and he continued his ministrations.

 

Molly allowed her hand to slide down on top of his, guiding him to where she needed him most, and she began to show him how she wanted to be stroked (she never had been very patient with her lovers), when she felt him truly begin to work her over.

 

Once she had helped him find _that spot_ , he touched her like he had known her body his entire life; like he’d been studying her for years. After a few minutes, she broke from the kisses to drop her head to his shoulder, the sensations overwhelming her. She never liked being face to face with somebody during acts of intimacy. With her face pressed into the crook of his neck, she felt free to experience the sweet euphoria that was gripping her, crashing over her in waves. It reached a fever pitch and her voice ripped from her throat, unbidden, in a loud moan as she shook around him.

 

They stood still for a few minutes, Mycroft holding onto her, before he pulled back to look at her face. Molly slowly came out of the haze that her orgasm had left her in. Mycroft was certainly not what she had expected, she thought, reflecting on it. The man was clearly quite experienced, which, knowing what she did of Sherlock, surprised her a bit.

 

Her phone ringing startled them both out of their reverie, and Molly jerked back a bit. She fumbled for it before answering. “Hello? Mary, hi! No, no, I’m fine. Listen, I can’t really talk right now, but I’ll call you later?”

 

She hung up, and turned back to Mycroft, feeling shy and uncertain now that their spell had been broken. “Mary just wanted to check up on me. I-I should probably head to bed soon, it’s getting late.” She tucked her hair behind her ear self consciously, curling in on herself defensively.

 

Mycroft slowly nodded, seeming to note the change in her body language and stepped back. “If you wish.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. Molly could feel the awkwardness of their encounter pervade the air, and she struggled to act semi-normally. Mycroft made to leave her flat, pausing when he reached her door. “Goodnight, Molly,” he murmured before stepping out.

  
As soon as the door closed behind him, Molly turned and sagged against it, feeling beyond conflicted. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the feeling away. Tears of frustration and confusion began to seep angrily from them, and she furiously tried to wipe them away. Sensing that it was no use, Molly succumbed to the despair that had been threatening to overwhelm her for several days and slowly crumpled down to the floor where she buried her head in her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody's upset at this chapter, I'm sorry. It's necessary for my story, and I do promise that this story ends with Sherlolly. Thanks for taking the time to read!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know last chapter wasn't everybody's cup of tea. Thank y'all so much for taking the time to read despite that, and thanks for the honest feedback! We'll be getting to the Sherlolly soon, I promise!

Sherlock’s mind was in turmoil. The thought of Molly and Moriarty made him feel ill, and though rationality told him that he _shouldn’t_ be angry at her (she had no way of knowing what he was at the time), he couldn’t seem to control the emotions bubbling up inside of him. _Sentiment_ , he thought bitterly, it made people act like fools.

 

Neither had he been able to cast the kiss they shared out of his mind, the memory of the way her lips felt on his instead seared into him, and he had set about building a new room in his mind palace in an attempt to contain the stimuli somewhat. Hours of careful construction and organization later he gave up, frustrated. It hadn’t been very effective, he mused, the door to the room instead bursting open to spill out and flood him, surrounding him in all things Molly.

 

Sherlock remained in his flat all day and most of the evening, consumed with feelings of extreme possessiveness over Molly and rage that Moriarty had dared to touch her. His thoughts eventually drifted towards Molly's safety, and he snapped up, throwing his coat on before heading to see his brother. Time to settle some things, as well as formulate a plan to deal with the impending threat. He arrived at his brother's flat, quietly entering and finding it empty. Without missing a beat, Sherlock strode into Mycroft’s office to wait, pacing back and forth for a few minutes before hurling himself into the chair behind the desk and propping his legs up on the desk. While he waited, his thoughts drifted to the scene on the roof, where Mycroft had kissed Molly in full view of him. Given the events of the previous night and morning, Sherlock was now not entirely sure where either brother stood; she had seemed frustrated with both of them, and hadn’t initiated a kiss with either. Sherlock chose to believe that Molly was still as enamored with him as ever; the alternative was too painful to consider.

 

He had been waiting nearly an hour when he heard the front door open and close, listening as his brother walked slowly down the hall to the office. There was something off about his gait, and Sherlock's interest piqued. The footsteps paused outside the door, and Sherlock realized that Mycroft was all too aware of his presence. The door to the office swung open, revealing Mycroft to Sherlock. He stood, staring at his younger brother as Sherlock took in the sight in front of him, and as his eyes roved up and down his big brother, his blood ran cold.

 

Suit, unbuttoned at the jacket. Vest and shirt, rumpled and slightly untucked. Hair slightly disheveled, cheeks tinged with pink, mouth...swollen slightly...

 

His mouth forming a hard line, Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet his brother's, tension quivering in every muscle in his body. For once, words failed him, his fury overtaking everything. Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows at him. "Something the matter, Sherlock?"

 

He was goading him. He was goading and gloating and letting Sherlock know that Molly didn't _belong_ to him; she wasn't _his_.

 

Well, neither was she Mycroft's. Sherlock found his voice, standing to face down his brother. "Why? Why her, out of everybody? Why did you have to choose _her,_ Mycroft?"

 

Mycroft's face was piercing. "It wasn't intentional, I assure you. At any rate, I apologize for any discomfort this is causing you."

 

Sherlock attempted to shove away the feelings of despair that were beginning to take root around the base of his neck, creeping upwards. "You're speaking as though this is over, Mycroft, though you know as well as I that she's kissed both of us. The maddening part is not being able to decipher what she's thinking."

 

Mycroft looked away and smirked at the ground, and Sherlock felt a veil of foreboding settle over him. And then Mycroft opened his mouth, and shattered Sherlock's world.

 

"Always a step behind, aren't we brother mine?"

 

With a heavy sense of trepidation, Sherlock examined his brother again, and he finally clued in on what he had skipped over, never having entertained it as a possibility before. There was always something he missed. Mycroft’s hand was shoved deep into his pocket, hidden from Sherlock rather than clutching onto his umbrella like he normally did. The deep sense of calm mixed with frenzy that was so uncharacteristic of him. The light scent of lavender and spice that was so Molly mixed with something unknown...musky, earthy even. Sherlock averted his eyes, as though he weren't supposed to see.

 

As if his brother hadn't just flung it in front of his face.

 

Sherlock felt as though he had short circuited, the knowledge of what had transpired between his brother and Molly immediately prior to this clouding everything out. His jaw tightened in rage, not even attempting to hold on to some sense of logic or reason. There was nothing left to say, and with that, Sherlock let his fist fly at Mycroft's jaw, the punch landing squarely and sending his brother stumbling back. Sherlock straightened up, looking down at the crumpled mass that was Mycroft. He turned and strode from the room, unable to look at him for another second.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It hadn't taken much more than an hour after Mycroft left for Molly to decide that she needed some honest to god distance from both brothers, her mind more confused than ever. She felt caught in a volley between the two, and the swings from one brother to the next had her body wracked with guilt.

 

Bearing that in mind, she packed a bag and fled her flat, noting her security detail tailing her as she left. She knew both Sherlock and Mycroft would know exactly where she was, but hoped that they would get the message. Molly arrived at Meena's not long after, intending on laying low.

 

Within fifteen minutes of showing up, Meena had opened a bottle of wine and had begun to coax the sordid tale of how Molly became trapped between two brothers out of her. Molly happily obliged, relieved to finally be able to talk to somebody about the utter madness concerning her and the Holmes boys, though she did opt to omit the part about the dangerous psychopath targeting her. After Molly finished recounting her tale. Meena's jaw was practically on the floor. The women were curled up on Meena’s bed, and she leaned back against the wall to absorb the information.

 

"So...one brother kisses you, then the _other_ one, who has never shown any indication of interest in females stalks you down in a club, takes you home with him, kisses you, and then you go and hook up with to first brother again? Holy shit, Molly. I'm impressed." Meena giggled at her.

 

Molly threw her a pained look before cracking a meek smile. "God, they're both being such shits though, Meena."

 

"No, no, really. I mean, you haven't had any action since you broke things off with Tom, and now in the space of a day you snag _brothers?_ "

 

"Meena, it isn't funny! Everything is seriously fucked up and I doubt that Sherlock will every forgive me!" Meena was roaring now, and Molly couldn't help it when she began to chuckle along with her, the absurdity of it all catching up with her.

 

"Oh, god, we need another bottle of wine." Molly gasped through laughs as she emptied the bottle.

 

Meena’s expression sobered a little and she looked at Molly. “In all seriousness though, what are you going to do? I mean, I know that for as long as I can remember, all you’ve talked about is the god in the belstaff coat. But is he still what you want?”

 

Molly bit her lip, thinking. Her attraction to Sherlock was still overwhelming, and having his attention fixed on her was like a dream come true. But...there was still Mycroft. She couldn’t reconcile in her mind if she wanted one more than the other. “I don’t know,” she admitted, “I would like to be able to say that I want Sherlock, and god knows I still love him, but I _am_ attracted to Mycroft. And Sherlock, as I’ve said, has been acting like such a dick. Not that Mycroft’s been great, either. But he’s been mildly better behaved.” Molly sat motionless, musing, before hurling herself back onto some pillows. “I just don’t know.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

John had opened the door at 221B, intending on popping in for a quick visit and to see how the case with Moriarty was progressing. As he was walking up the steps, he heard a loud gunshot, having just enough presence of mind to duck, looking up as a fresh round of shots rang out, peppering the wall behind him with new holes.

 

“CHRIST, SHERLOCK!” John yelled from the ground. A moment later, Sherlock’s head popped out of the flat, scowling as he spied John.

 

“What do you want, John?” he muttered.

 

John stood up, dusting himself off and checking for holes in his body. All seemed normal. He shook his head, striding past Sherlock into the flat, and stopping in his tracks at the sight that greeted him.

 

He took a further step in, surveying the damage. Bullet holes riddled every wall in the flat. As John continued to turn, he estimated that Sherlock had to have emptied at least two clips into the flat. The sofa and his chair bore wounds, and the kitchen table held some shattered glassware that was slowly dripping whatever was left in it on the kitchen table.

 

Sherlock had always had a penchance for firing a gun when he there weren’t any cases or his experiments weren’t thrilling enough for him. And even then, he usually had some semblance of a target. Sherlock certainly had an interesting and very engrossing case right now with Moriarty, so John wasn’t sure what had caused the break in his friend.He felt the pressure wave as a sulky Sherlock Holmes stalked past him to hurl himself down on the sofa.

 

“Why do people insist on injecting their lives with sentiment? I’ll never understand it. Can’t trust anyone. Lestrade’s proved it several times over with his failed marriage, Mrs. Hudson's certainly no role model for a healthy relationship, and even you, John, you, who seem to have the most loving marriage of them all, even your wife, take her: she lied to you, and then she shot me. What’s to say she won’t run off with your sister next? Pairing up is an absurd notion.”

 

John cleared his throat. “Yeah, thanks for that, mate. But Mary and I worked through things, you know that. It’s all worth it to have someone there.”

 

“You know you’re still angry about the lie.”

 

John ignored the comment. “Your parents seem quite happy.”

 

Sherlock was silent before shrugging it off with annoyance. “Oh, they hardly count. Mutants.”

 

“Sherlock,” John said to the man standing behind him, “Mate, erm...is everything alright?”

 

“Fine, John. May I enquire as to the reason for your visit?”

 

John was undeterred. “It’s just that you’ve never murdered an entire flat before, not to mention you nearly shot me. Thanks for that, by the way. And now you’re asking me about-”

 

“Did you ever consider the notion that it was my way of saying ‘I’m not entertaining visitors at the moment’?” Sherlock’s seaglass eyes bore into his.

 

John pursed his lips, nodded to himself, and turned on his heel. “If you want to be a tit about it, I suppose I’ll just leave you to it.”

 

Sherlock was silent as he retreated down the stairs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Molly decided to call in to work again (she'd go back tomorrow, _really_ ) and go shopping with Meena. For the first time in a while, Molly had a normal, relaxing day, finally shrugging off the cloud that had been following her around.

 

She made it in to work the day after as promised, and had two blissful, quiet days in the morgue. Until John and Mary showed up, that is.

 

She had just hung up her lab coat and was heading to lunch when she saw them through the doors, internally rolling her eyes. She could tell Mary was on a mission, and John looked grumpy in general, more so than should come from having a newborn. She braced herself.

 

"John, Mary, what are you two doing here?" Molly asked with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

 

"We just decided to get out of the house, come have a visit and take you to lunch, if you're free?" Mary answered her. Nothing else for it, Molly smiled and nodded, and the trio headed over to a small sandwich shop.

 

"So, what's new? How's baby Watson?" Molly tried to steer the conversation.

 

"Ah, well she's lovely, really lovely. Best child ever. That being said, our other child, Sherlock, is being a straight up dick." John answered her, an air of annoyance raising as he spoke of Sherlock.

 

Molly's ears perked up unwittingly. "Oh really? More so than the usual?" She attempted to chuckle at her meager joke.

 

Mary's eyes lasered in on her. "Yes, seems he's been far more petulant, moody, and gun happy the past few days. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you Molly?"

 

Molly's cheeks began to flame as she desperately looked away, hoping John would prove extraordinary thick. No such luck.

 

"Why would Molly know anything but about that..." John began, and Molly's eyes shut as things began to click in John's mind. "I'm sorry, did I miss something? Molly, did...did something _happen_ between you and Sherlock?"

 

Molly stared at her sandwich, picking at the bread. "Um, it's possible, I guess, that, um, Sherlock, you know, picked me up from the club, and then kind of...kissed me..." She mumbled.

 

"I'm sorry, _what_? Did you just say Sherlock _kissed_ you? _Sherlock?_ "

 

Johns incredulity was beginning to wear on her and she snapped back without thinking. "Yes, it's so crazy that little old me can attract a man. Anyways, I'm not so sure that's what's made him so pissy..." She trailed off, her eyes widening as she realized that she opened herself up to a whole new line of questioning. Desperately, she looked to Mary, who was smirking at her knowingly. _Traitor,_ she thought.

 

Almost lazily, Mary asked her the fateful question. "And what might have his knickers in such a twist then, hm?"

 

Slowly, Molly dropped her head to her hand so she didn't have to look at them as she answered. "Sherlock acted like...Sherlock, and sort of deduced that I'd...slept with Jim. With Moriarty. Before I knew who he was, I mean." Molly knew that they would realize that this nugget of information alone wouldn’t be enough to make Sherlock so irate. And so, bracing herself for the worst, she continued, "...and I'm sure that hooking up with Mycroft the next day didn't help matters."

 

Dead silence.

 

Molly finally looked up into the shocked face of John and the mildly impressed face of Mary.

 

" ** _Mycroft_** , you hooked up with **_Mycroft_**?" The information was almost too much for John to handle.

 

"I don't know, John, it just sort of happened!"

 

"Good god, Molly, Sherlock nearly put a bullet through me yesterday. Jesus, no wonder he's so strung up. You pitted him against _Mycroft_ -"

 

"John, I get it, bad Molly," Molly cut him off, "Mary, why do you look smug?"

 

Mary had been silently grinning at the exchange. "Oh, it's just better than crap telly," she chuckled, before her expression sobered, "though it does explain why you're the prime target for Moriarty. The woman who ensnared both Holmes men makes an excellent target."

 

The mention of Moriarty caused a silence to fall over the table, its occupants remembering the danger Molly was currently in. Thinking on it  prompted Molly to recall what he had told her when he broke in. "He...Moriarty, I mean, he said...he had cared about me."

 

Mary stared at her for a few minutes. "Molly, I really don't think you should stay at you flat anymore, and I don't think you should be at Meena's. Shit, I don't think you should be at _work_."

 

"Well, I don't want to be around the Holmes men either." Molly stubbornly replied.

 

Mary sat back and and began to mull things over, while John piped up. “You could stay with us.”

 

Molly rolled her eyes, snorting. “Yeah, that’d keep me away from Sherlock. He considers your flat part of his domain. Besides, I don’t want to intrude on you lot.”

 

Mary broke her silence. “Okay, I think I’ve got an idea for you. We need to keep you safe, and we need to get you some distance.”

 

“I’m all ears.”

 

Mary smiled at her before continuing. “How does a nice, seaside break sound?" she asked.

  
There was only one answer Molly could give. "Heavenly."


	15. Chapter 15

True to their word, Mary and John helped Molly arrange for a cottage rental in Pembrokeshire, far away from everything and everybody and Molly couldn’t have been more thankful to them. Mary had ensured that security would be able to keep a watch on her, albeit much more discreetly, and Molly had practically run to it. Molly was well aware that Mycroft had to know where she had gone to, and even had a hand in setting up such a secure location for her, but hoped he would take the hint that, at the moment, Molly wanted to be far, far away. She was grateful for the small mercy.

 

She wasn't so sure Sherlock would take the hint, assuming he ever wanted to see her again. The thought of his face the last time they'd seen each other made her feel slightly ill every time she remembered it.

 

So instead she occupied herself, reading and lazing on the beach, taking walks and sipping wine in the evenings. The cottage was quiet, in a sleepy little cove, and she mused on how lucky she was to be there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was laying, stretched out on the sofa, debating finding something to set on fire, when he heard the door creak open. He turned his head to see John walk in. _Ah._ So John knew, then. Determinedly stubborn, though, Sherlock resolved to ignore him.

 

"So I've had an interesting chat with Molly."

 

"Is that so?"

 

"Come off it, Sherlock. I know what happened. Now, anything you want to tell me?"

 

Sherlock sat up, flinging his dressing gown off his legs as he did so. "Nothing whatsoever, John."

 

"I get being upset about Myc- anyway, are you seriously upset with her about Moriarty? That one's not her fault, you know."

 

Sherlock turned to scrutinize him. "You're remarkably calm about all this. Normally, if you'd found something like this out, you'd be heading to me first thing, and you'd be overreacting. But no, you've had time to assimilate this information; I was not your first stop. You've spoken with Molly, at length, and you've spoken to her at least a day ago. Why wouldn't you come to see me sooner? What occasion would you to have..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. "What have you been doing with Molly, John?"

 

John stared at him before shaking his head. "No, we're not playing this game. Not this time."

 

"John, what's happened with Molly?"

 

"Nothing, Sherlock, she's fine, she just wants a break from you two knobheads." John's eyes slid shut as realized his giveaway. "Sherlock, leave her alone, give her time."

 

"Where has she gone?"

 

"She's just taking a break, and a well deserved one at that. Sherlock, I'm begging you, drop it."

 

Well, that was never going to happen. Sherlock jumped up, heading to his room. "Yes, fine John, I'm rather tired, would you mind showing yourself out?" He called before slamming his door. He stood behind the door, his palm left flat against it as he listened. Sherlock was still until he heard John quietly swear and walk out, closing the door to the flat behind him. At this, Sherlock stepped into the middle of his room, bringing his hands together underneath his chin to think, before perching on the edge of his bed.

 

So Molly wasn't running into the arms of his brother. In fact, she ran in the opposite direction. Interesting. Sherlock allowed himself, for a moment, to ponder the implications of this fact. To allow himself to hope. Perhaps...she wasn't decided on Mycroft. Perhaps...she still wanted him. Perhaps he still stood a chance.

 

Unbidden, an exchange from long ago ran through his head.

 

_"Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex."_

_"Sex doesn't alarm me."_

_"How would you know?"_

 

Mycroft's mocking face taunted him. Sherlock had never experienced such desire for another person before, and as much as he liked to play it off, it terrified him. And Mycroft had always known as much, and had never hesitated to lord that particular aspect of the human experience over him. It hadn’t ever really bothered Sherlock until…

 

...Until his brother had used Sherlock’s aversion to physical intimacy against him with the one woman that Sherlock had ever fallen for. Banking on his seeming inability to do so.

 

Sherlock snapped up, having made up his mind. He had never done well with mysteries; they always had to be solved, and the stakes were much higher for him now. Sherlock had to know, one way or the other, where he stood with her. It was time to find out where Molly had decided to have her little 'holiday' and pay her a visit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly had just returned from her evening walk, having brought along a water bottle with some wine in it (always classy, she was), and had poured herself another glass after sitting down for a simple dinner of bread, cheese, and cured meats on the back patio. The muted colors of dusk were playing on the water as she watched the waves crash, the rhythmic sounds luring her into a deep state of relaxation. It was cathartic.

 

She didn't know how long she had been sitting there, when she heard a knock on the door. She set her glass down and quietly padded to the door, peering through the keyhole. She gasped when she saw Sherlock staring back at her through it, backing up.

 

Molly wasn't sure what to do, instead choosing to remain frozen on the spot. She decided to ignore him, turning and striding to the back patio, fully realizing that he would dismiss the locked door.

 

She was right, and she listened as the door clicked open, hearing Sherlock quietly enter and slink through the house. She heard his every footstep as he came closer, until the hairs on the back of her neck raised as she felt him walk up behind her, leaving the door open behind him. Molly resolutely continued to stare at the ocean.

 

He stood a few moments before his deep baritone vibrated behind her. "Why?"

 

At the low rumble of his voice, Molly trembled. "Why what?" she replied.

 

"Why, out of all of the people in the world, my brother?"

 

She turned to look at him, the breath leaving her as she stared at him. He was a god, she thought, taking in his wild hair, the shirt that strained to pop open, his full lips, and his eyes, dear god, his eyes, as they burned into hers. She wanted to have a reason, she wanted to explain, but there was nothing to say; no excuses. All thought had deserted her.

 

"I don't know." She whispered.

 

His eyes were positively smoldering as he took a step forward, and she instinctively stepped back, running into one of the porch columns behind her, effectively pinning her. Sherlock continued to close the distance, his hand shooting out to close around her wrist, tugging her back, spinning her until she was planted against the wall of the house.

 

He leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against her ear. "Tell me this is a bad decision," he whispered, and she swore that she had to be running a fever with how hot and delirious she felt, saying nothing. She couldn't if she had wanted. All she could do was shake her head frantically, and all of her affirmations that she required space and time were blown away. The only thought that was running through Molly's head was that she required _this, now._

His lips dropped to the hollow between her neck and jaw giving a gentle kiss before sucking on the skin lightly. Molly drew a sharp breath in, and Sherlock trailed down her neck, leaving a trail in his mouth’s wake. Molly tilted her head back, allowing him greater access, and she moaned when she felt his tongue give a tentative swipe against her carotid artery, sending a pulse strait to her groin.

 

Sherlock reacted, quickly claiming her lips as if to swallow her moans. She melted into him, opening her mouth and she felt his tongue boldly press into her mouth. Though she could tell he was a novice, she took everything he offered and gave it back, responding with a searing kiss and she felt him deducing her, adjusting and then dear _god,_ it was bliss. Her hands slid up his arms before drifting to his chest, grabbing his shirt and tugging him closer. Her stepped in further, pressing against her until she could feel every inch of his body.

 

Her mind shifted into overdrive when she felt his hardness, urgently pressing into her abdomen, and her legs drifted apart, allowing him even closer access. He bent down slightly before he hitched her up around him, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling her from the wall and carrying her inside.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After John had given away Molly's little secret, Sherlock had wasted little time in deciphering exactly where she could have run off to. It was obviously remote, given her self professed desire for isolation, though it had to be in an environment that was at the same time controllable. Sherlock knew that Molly was particularly fond of the sea, and he knew that Mycroft would have had a hand in determining where the safe house would be. And then, to determine it once and for all, Sherlock had broken into Mycroft's office while he had been away and ran off with the address of the little cottage that was currently housing Molly Hooper.

 

He arrived at the door, nerves suddenly grasping onto him. In an uncharacteristic move, he reached out and knocked on the door, more so to give Molly the slightest heads up that he was there. He could almost feel her in the other side of the door, and it took all of his willpower not to call her out on it. He heard the slight gasp as she looked out the peephole; listened intently at her retreating footsteps. She knew better than to think he'd just leave.

 

When he'd picked the door and walked up behind her, he'd only intended on questioning her; attempting to make some sense of the maelstrom that had enveloped his brother, Molly, and himself. Damned if she claimed she wasn't ready to give him an answer; he needed to know where he stood. When she whirled to take a look at him was where it all went off the rails and straight to hell.

 

"Why, out of all the people, my brother?"

 

"I don't know." Her eyes, normally such a warm honey brown, were blown out so that they appeared black, and they roved over him and he could _feel_ it, every inch she scanned and it was as nothing he'd ever experienced before. And damned if he wasn't helpless to react to it, his body betraying the cool facade he had been putting on and carrying him forward to her.

 

_A moth to the flame._

He didn't even notice how they had wound up with him pressing her into the wall of the house, and it suddenly seemed very, very important that Molly remain there, and not run off. "Tell me this is a bad idea," he growled and he half hoped she'd put a stop to this madness, and half couldn't dream of stopping. When she gave a tiny shake of her head, he broke, leaning forward to taste that succulent skin that had been emanating such a delicious scent. He felt her react to it, encouraging him until he moved up to kiss her. He felt clumsy and slow, but when she began to kiss him back it ignited him even further until he felt his whole body aflame and he pressed in between her legs, grinding into her before picking her up to continue inside.

 

Sherlock's mind was encompassed by Molly; her taste, her touch, her scent, the way she was writhing against him, everything was Molly, Molly, _Molly_. He had intended on carrying her to the bedroom, but when he felt Molly begin to assault his neck, he deviated to the sofa, too impatient to make it any further, Sherlock nearly dropping her onto it before covering her with his body. Molly's hands slid around his back, tugging his shirt from his trousers and sliding her hands up his back, feeling his muscles rippling under her fingers.

 

Sherlock slid a hand into her hair, pulling her mouth hard into his and experimentally pressing into her with his hips. When Molly moaned at the friction, Sherlock nearly lost control, breaking from her mouth and pressing kisses down her jawline and into the hollow at the base of her neck. His hand gripped at her waist and began its ascent sliding under her blouse and up the planes of her stomach before meeting the round, supple, underside of her breast. Molly arched into the contact, her breath catching as he fully palmed her breast.

 

When he withdrew his hand she nearly protested before he began to divest her of her top. She helped him along, unclasping her bra as she looked at him, before slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands ran up his chest as she stared at him, before they boldly drifted to his trousers.

 

Sherlock froze, and his mind, which up until now had seemingly ceased all coherent thought, slammed into overdrive, flooding him with doubts and insecurities. Once more, Mycroft's taunt drifted through his mind, and as he looked at Molly, so coquettishly gazing back at him, he wondered if he had it in him to please her. His eyes squeezed shut as her hands brushed the bulge beneath his zipper, his hips involuntarily jerking forward, and the thought was blown from him just as quickly. She slowly unzipped it, tugging his trousers down over her hips.

 

Sherlock suddenly pulled back, instead running his hands up her thighs. Her back arched when he brushed against the junction of her thighs, and he latched his hands over the waistband of her yoga pants, tugging down. She lifted her hips to assist, and he nearly lost his breath as she was divested of clothing.

 

She reached up to pull his face to hers, and he latched onto her lips as if they were his last anchor to reality.

 

When she reached down to push his underwear down his legs, he hissed, and he felt her smile against his lips. She broke from the kiss, looking down as she felt his length spring free. Her hand drifted to it, stroking it. Sherlock sensed that the encounter shifting in terms him being the pursuer, instead becoming the prey, and he resolved to do what he did best; observe and deduce. His hand boldly slipped between her thighs, pressing against her, and he watched her reaction. Her eyes shut, her breath hitched, and he could see her nearly quivering in anticipation. _Good._

 

He continued making small, experimental movements with his hand, testing out different placements, pressures and strokes. He could see Molly's need burgeoning, her agitation growing at being kept in such a high state of arousal. Sherlock didn't allow himself to panic, instead continuing his exploration. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed her hand moving toward his as he gave one more gentle press.

 

Molly froze. _There it is._ Sherlock smiled to himself, watching her body respond with the most beautiful flush. Her legs parted further, encouraging more contact, and he obliged, increasing speed and pressure. Soon, Molly was writhing under him, a sheen covering her body with the exertion. Sherlock could sense her getting close, looking at the exquisite tension wrought across her face, her eyes squeezed shut and her lower lip between her teeth.

 

He wanted it between _his_ teeth, and he wanted her to be looking into _his_ eyes, he realized, and leaned forward to bite the lobe of her ear gently, tugging it before whispering, "Look at me, Molly." Sherlock pulled back, hearing her gasp, and watched as she slowly opened her eyes, trepidation on her face. He couldn't understand why she didn't want to look at him.

 

His mouth dropped open as she bit her lip again, her eyebrows drawn together, her eyes brimming with _something._ Her body suddenly went rigid, before she shuddered, letting out a guttural moan. He had never heard such a noise in his life, never _seen_ such a sight, and he leaned forward, kissing her hard.

 

Sherlock barely noticed when her hand drifted down, and when he felt the contact of it wrapping around the length of him, he was truly done for. Molly urged him forward, pressing his tip against her warmth, looking into his eyes.

 

"Are you ready?" She asked him.

 

He was lost, so lost in everything that had happened, and there was no going back. He nodded, and moved forward, sliding himself fully into her. _Oh god._

 

And then his thoughts turned off, instead drowning in the sensations bombarding him. She surrounded him in every sense, and the couldn't think of anything except the perfection that was Molly. Sherlock began to move, pulling himself back until he was almost out of her before he pushed in again with increased fervor. He was clumsy at first, the motions so unfamiliar and overwhelming when instinct kicked in and his body took over. Sherlock’s thrusting reached a fever pitch, and he felt her keening under him, gasping. When she moaned his name, quaking under him, he broke, his release rocking him so hard his vision went white and a ringing in his ears seemed to sound as he came back to himself.

  
Everything seemed to move in slow motion as he slowly extracted himself from Molly, looking down at her. She pulled his face in to kiss him and he shut his eyes, reveling in the quiet that pervaded his senses after the violent storm. His head began to feel heavy and he laid it on her breast, his breath coming deeper. Sherlock drifted off, wrapped around her. 


	16. Chapter 16

Molly woke up, feeling warm and heavy, and she tensed her muscles, stretching slightly and flexing her feet to feel the blood begin to move through her again and shake off the stiffness in her joints, momentarily confused when her limbs didn't move as far as she had anticipated. It took a short moment to understand the reason for the sensation was that Sherlock’s weight was still draped over her. The events of the previous evening came rushing back to her, and she couldn’t help when her hand flew up to slap a hand over her eyes, groaning quietly. She slept with Sherlock. She _slept_ with Sherlock. So much for the distance she had attempted to create for herself.

 

And yet...she had slept with Sherlock. For years she had wondered what it would be like, what Sherlock would be like as a lover. She’d thought of what it would be like to capture his lips with her own and to peel the tight shirt he was always wearing from him, to touch that achingly perfect torso. There had been countless nights where she had... _entertained_ herself with these fantasies. She’d never thought of it in terms of something that could actually _happen_ , though. And yet, here she was, stifling under the warm and very naked body of Sherlock Holmes. And as far as the way it had felt in real life...it had felt better than she ever could have imagined it would be.

 

Molly began to shake with suppressed giggles, the absurdity of it all catching up with her. The movement was enough to jostle Sherlock awake, and he stirred, groggily opening his eyes to stare at her with his luminous blue-green eyes. They widened slightly, and he blinked a few times. Apparently he was having the same ‘that really happened’ moment that she had.

 

Insecurity shook her, the force of it taking her off guard, and she braced herself for a scathing review of their state. He must have sensed her discomfort, and made to pull her closer, as though to give her a kiss.

 

She just couldn’t; not yet, and she slipped out from his embrace, snatching a blanket from the top of the sofa to hastily wrap around herself. “I’m just going to get some coffee, do you want some coffee?” she called out, not waiting for an answer before dashing into the kitchen. She rushed through the steps to brew a pot, and stood, watching the dark liquid drip into the carafe, drumming her fingers on the counter absently. _Really didn't handle that so well_ , she thought to herself. Then again, she had no precedent by which to gauge this encounter, and, knowing her, no matter what she did she would manage to fuck it up. She sighed to herself, wishing she could disappear.

 

She felt the air change behind her, and she stiffened slightly.

 

“You regret last night.” It wasn’t a question; she could sense _his_ insecurities, and she remembered that before last night, Sherlock had been a virgin. This was all uncharted territory for him as well, and the ramifications on his end were likely to be far more profound. And she had run away from him the second he looked at her. Guilt caught up to her, and she bowed her head in shame.

 

“No.”

 

“I can see it; you can’t even look at me. Have I-have I done something wrong? Was it...was _I_...not good?”

 

Molly felt as though she had been dropped into an alternate reality where everything was inverted, and his words left her feeling as though he had punched her in the gut. This was a Sherlock she had never dreamed existed, let alone one that would be confronting her. It was far, far more painful to bear witness to than the brutal deductions about her personal life he usually flung at her. She spun then, noting how very much like an overgrown toddler he looked, standing and waiting, for a reprimand or approval, she didn’t know. _He didn’t act much like a toddler last night_...Her body began to flush as the memory of the previous night invaded her, and she shook the thought from her mind. “No, Sherlock, this is just a lot to take in at the moment.”

 

His eyes flicked up and down her, and he seemed to regain himself, his trademark confidence retaking his persona, and he straightened up, a smile quirking back on his lips. He stepped in closer to her, trapping her against the kitchen table. He leaned over her, his lips brushing her ears, and she could feel his warm breath tickling her neck. “So it _was_ good?” he whispered, and she felt her knees weaken.

 

“ _God_ , Sherlock,” she breathed, and her hand reached up to tangle itself in those wild curls. She could hear his breath suck in, clearly affected by the movement and he responded in kind by gripping her hips with his hands. Somehow, she found the strength to tug his face back from it’s near contact with her neck. As his eyes met with hers, they narrowed.

 

“You clearly _want_ me, but you won’t have me,” he spoke flatly, “you still have _feelings_ for my brother.”

 

It was her turn for her eyes to narrow. “That’s not really the point, Sherlock. I wanted space, and yet, you just couldn’t resist. Am I really supposed to think that this isn’t just another experiment, or that you aren’t here just to win some weird battle with Mycroft? When have you ever wanted me?” He looked at her with a dumbstruck look on his face. She sighed deeply before releasing her hand from his hair and placing it over his heart. “I don’t count.” she whispered, looking at where her hand lay.

 

His warm fingers wrapped around her hand, tugging it up to his lips, and he pressed a warm, soft kiss to her fingers, before tilting her face back up to look at him. “How many times must I tell you,” he declared in an urgent, hushed tone, “that you have always counted, that you mattered the most.” His eyes searched hers almost frantically, and Molly felt the harsh sting of tears building behind her eyes, still unwilling to let her guard down.

 

“This isn’t about Mycroft. This isn’t an experiment. This isn’t about keeping you safe. Molly...I can’t...I’ve spent my life controlling my emotions, not allowing myself to form attachments. Sentiment; I had no use for it. That all got shot to hell when I met John Watson, and you’ve wormed your way in there as well. John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade...and you.” He looked at her in anguish. “I can deny it all I want, but the truth remains that I cannot refuse you any longer.”

 

Sherlock placed his hands on either cheek, and moved in slowly. Her eyes fluttered shut and she felt his lips ghost over hers, as though he were afraid of the consequences. She relaxed her stance just slightly, letting out a breath, and decided to shut out her concerns for the time being. _To hell with it all_ , she thought, _I’ll deal with it later_. With that, she succumbed to temptation, responding to his ministrations. It was all the encouragement he needed, moving in to fully seal his lips against hers. Her mouth opened against his, and she fully surrendered to the kiss, that perfect, _perfect_ kiss. He moved slowly, almost leisurely, seeming to savor it.

 

It wasn’t until he began to tug at the blanket she had wrapped around her that she realized that while she had simply grabbed a blanket, he had taken the time to put his trousers and shirt back on. That simply wouldn’t do. She batted his hands away and slowly began to work each of his buttons open, parting the shirt to the sides when she had finished and running her hands over his chest. She felt him shiver under her fingertips and smiled, enjoying the sensation of goosebumps raising in the wake her touch left.

 

She gently pressed him back, and he broke off, looking confused and hurt. His misgivings faded and he looked at her in wonder when she seized his hand and tugged him along with her, headed for the bedroom. He paused at the doorway and she took a few steps in before coming to a halt. With her back to him, she allowed the blanket to sag, exposing her shoulder blades, before allowing it to skim down her body, puddling at her feet. Molly slyly looked over her shoulder at Sherlock, who stood frozen, shocked by her brazenness.

 

She had been so afraid and so nervous around him for so long, but in this moment she was acutely aware of the monumental shift in the power dynamic between them. She reached a hand out, an unspoken gesture for him, and he responded by walking forward as though in a trance. When he reached her, Molly wrapped one hand around the back of his head and placed the other on his cheek and pulled him to her, kissing him deeply as she pressed her body against his.

 

Where her skin was cool, his was fiery warm and she moaned at the contact. She turned them and walked him backwards until his legs bumped against the bed. Breaking away again, she let her hands drift from his neck and face down his neck, where they slid under his collar and down his shoulders, dragging his shirt along with them. Her hands moved to his trousers, tugging them off him with equal fervor, and when he stood as naked as she, she kissed him again before encouraging him to lie on his back, climbing up beside him, turning to suck at his throat lightly before peppering kisses down his torso.

 

She let her hand graze up his thigh before wrapping her fingers around him, and Sherlock let out a deep moan at the contact. Molly stroked him a few times before climbing on top of him. She rocked herself against him, bringing her hands up to lay on his chest, and began to kiss his neck. The friction from rubbing against each other was too much, and Molly found herself sliding him inside of her. She took him slowly, leaning forward to kiss him. His hands latched onto her hips, one of them moving up to press against her back as he relinquished control to her. Molly set a steady rhythm, gradually building faster. When she could feel herself getting close, she slid a hand down to press against herself and she heard Sherlock gasp when he realized what she was doing. His eyes latched onto hers before his face contorted and he went rigid before shuddering with his release. It was the most damned beautiful sight she had ever seen, and she found herself pushed over the edge as well, leaning back and gasping for breath as she climaxed.

 

She slumped forward, feeling rather boneless, and laid against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, allowing her fingers to lightly trace abstract patterns on his skin. _So human, so...normal_ , she thought with chagrin, realizing how she had always placed him into a box as having no feeling or emotions, and thereby being unable to hurt by somebody.

 

How very wrong she had been.

 

Sherlock’s hand came up to card through her hair, and the sensation of his fingers running argali at her scalp encouraged her to relax even more, her eyes beginning to feel heavy. If she stayed like this much longer, they'd be going straight back to sleep. She sighed before laboriously sitting up and rolling off of him. “I’m not running away; I just don’t want to fall asleep, and there’s a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like one?” she asked him. Sherlock’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he opened his mouth, and she cut him off before he could get the words out. “Don’t even,” she half laughed, trying in vain to sound indignant, “just come and get it.” On her way back to the kitchen, she grabbed an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, tugging them on.

 

Milky poured herself a cup of coffee, fixing it with a splash of milk before she poured one for Sherlock. Black, two sugars.

 

As if she could ever forget.

 

She was leaning against the counter, sipping on hers when he sauntered in, the sheet wrapped around him. He looked as though he were wearing a toga, and combined with his sex-messed hair and aquamarine eyes, he could very well be a god. She snorted to herself, wondering if he had intentionally come out wrapped up so enticingly. It wouldn't surprise her if he had. Wordlessly she held out the mug for him, and he took it, taking a sip while examining her.

 

"Hungry?" She asked him.

 

His gaze became smoky as he gazed at her before answering. "Starved."

 

Molly's heart skipped a beat at the intensity in his voice, surprised at how soon he seemed to be ready for another round. _Thirty some-odd years of repressed sexuality seem to be bursting through_ , she mused. "I meant for breakfast," she replied delicately, "I may need a bit more...time before anything else."

 

"I was under the impression that the refractory period after orgasm for a female was so small an amount of time as to be considered 'nonexistent'"

 

Molly very nearly choked on her coffee, and she stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. _Of course he would have knowledge of that. Why, who the hell knows?_ "That may be true in theory, or in the perfect setting, though in practicum, other factors can influence it. And Sherlock, this was far from the perfect setting. I'm still...pissed at you for the way you've handled things."

 

The way his face fell reminded her that she was dealing with what amounted to an emotionally stunted teenager, and sighed. "I'm sorry. This is a lot to process, Sherlock, and while I'm beyond _physically_ satisfied, you can't deny me that this has been an exceptionally trying few months on my emotions and psyche." She set down her coffee before continuing, "You know I slept with Jim. And then I found out he wasn’t ‘Jim’, he was a madman hell bent on destroying you, and it fucked me up for _years_. I wasn't able to sleep with anyone again until Tom. And after things with Tom...went south, I haven't been intimate with anyone since.”

 

Molly paused, glancing at him before turning to gaze at the windows. “That is, until this week, when I got in between two brothers. I didn't mean to get involved with Mycroft, Sherlock. I had been so in love with you, for so long, and I found out you were going to your death. And Mycroft was just as ruined as I was over it. He was _there_ and he _understood_ and it just _happened_. I never thought I'd see you again. I never thought-" her voice caught, "I never thought you'd want me.

 

"So I'm sorry that I have feelings for your brother. It's unavoidable. But I still have feelings for you, Sherlock. You've always eclipsed anybody I try to replace you with." She placed a hand on his cheek. "But I need to take some time, and I need to think. I need all of this to slow down."

 

Molly was surprised at how long Sherlock had remained quiet, allowing her to speak freely, to get her thoughts out without him clouding them up. He almost looked shell shocked at the massive amount of information Molly had just threw at him, and seemed to be attempting to file it all away. His eyes refocused and he gave a small nod. “I see.” He turned as if to walk away, whipping back around to her just as quickly. "Can I just...stay the weekend?" he asked. “I’ll stay on the sofa, I won’t touch you..but could I stay?”

  
Once again, Molly was reminded of how out of his depth Sherlock was at the current moment. He’d come all the way out here, had declared his feelings for her, and lost his virginity. She softened. _Just the weekend..._ “How does breakfast sound?”


End file.
